"I went to Peter's apartment."
Amy looked sick remembering it.
"He thought I was there to discuss seating arrangements."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I couldn't marry him."
"How did he react?"
"At first he thought I was joking."
"And then?"
"He asked if there was somebody else."
"Was there?"
"No."
"Did he believe you?"
"No."
She shook her head.
"Nobody did."
"What did he say?"
"He said I had destroyed him."
I imagined a twenty-four-year-old Amy sitting across from a man three weeks before their wedding.
"He cried. I cried. He got angry. He asked me to explain."
"Could you?"
"Not properly."
She looked at me.
"I said I didn't love him enough."
"Was that true?"
"No."
That surprised me.
"You loved him?"
"Yes."
The answer hurt despite the obvious fact that people have lives before marriage.
Amy saw my face.
"Not like I love you."
I gave her a tired look.
"You don't have to say that because we're married."
"I'm not."
She leaned closer.
"I loved him. But love wasn't the problem."
"What was?"
"I didn't know how to be myself around the future we had built."
I nodded slowly.
"And saying you didn't love him enough was easier."
"It gave people a reason."
"A cruel one."
"I know."
"What happened after?"
"Chaos."
That word barely covered it.
The wedding was canceled.
Deposits were lost.
Family members chose sides.
Peter's mother called Amy selfish and unstable.
Peter's father told her parents she had humiliated the entire Lawson family.
Amy's mother, terrified of conflict and embarrassed by gossip, spent weeks begging Amy to reconsider.
Friends stopped inviting her places because they felt awkward around Peter.
Some believed she had cheated.
Others decided she had simply become frightened by adulthood.
One bridesmaid told her she would regret destroying the best thing that would ever happen to her.
"The worst part," Amy said, "was that I couldn't defend myself."
"Why not?"
"Because their version sounded more reasonable."
She wiped her cheek.
"Peter was good on paper."
I almost smiled.
"So am I."
"You leave socks beside the laundry basket instead of inside it."
"I said on paper."
She laughed weakly.
That small laugh helped.
"What happened to Peter?"
"He moved away about six months later."
"Did you stay in contact?"
"No."
"Nothing?"
"One email after a year."
"What did it say?"
"He said he hoped I found what I was looking for."
"Did you answer?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I didn't know what to say."
Then she met me.
Not dramatically.
At Rachel's birthday party.
I remembered that night well.
Amy had worn a dark green sweater and spent most of the evening speaking to a woman she barely knew because she was too polite to leave the conversation.
I had been recently single and not looking for anything serious.
Rachel introduced us because she thought we'd "both appreciate someone boring."
Amy later claimed she almost went home before I arrived.
We talked until two in the morning.
Within three weeks, we were seeing each other regularly.
Within eight months, we were living together.
Three years after Peter's canceled wedding, I proposed.
That part of our story I knew.
Or thought I knew.
"Was that why you hesitated when I proposed?" I asked.
Amy looked surprised.
"You noticed?"
"You didn't answer for maybe five seconds."
"I was crying."
"I remember."
I had always interpreted the pause as shock.
Now I wondered if she had seen another ring.