James’s parents flew in for the original weekend and stayed in a hotel the club recommended. After the garden they offered to fly home. James said stay two days. They stayed two days and cooked in the Bennett kitchen while Patricia let them. James’s father dried dishes and said almost nothing. James’s mother said, once, I am glad he is kind. Patricia said kindness is the point of him. They did not mention Grant. The absence was a third person at the sink.
The honeymoon tickets were changed to a refund that took six weeks. Six weeks of an email chain about names on reservations. Claire handled it. She wanted the task. Tasks keep a body from living only in boxwood.
When they finally went away, it was three days at a lake in October after the courthouse. No satin. No toast. James swam. Claire sat on a dock and let her feet hang. A hedge stood near the parking lot of the rental office. She laughed at it. James said what. She said landscaping is following me. He said we can leave. She said it is only a bush. Only a bush is a hard sentence. She said it until it was a little true.
Back in the city she worked. He taught. June arrived. The story thinned into life. Life is the long version. The garden is the short version.
The short version is enough to open on.
String lights.
White tables.
A stare.
A hand.
A mother saying not tonight.
A bride already moving.
A father saying nothing.
A friend saying please.
A shaking cut-off: save it for the toast.
Lights still pretty.