Chapter 9 - The Wedding Andre Wanted to PostponeTaylor refused to call Evelyn back for almost two hours.

Marcus did not push.

He recognized panic when he saw it.

Eventually Taylor sat at the kitchen table and dialed on speaker.

Evelyn answered.

"You have Marcus there?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Taylor's voice was thin.

"Read it."

Evelyn hesitated.

Then paper rustled through the speaker.

"It's an email Andre printed because he was using my printer that weekend. He wrote it to his cousin Malcolm."

Taylor closed her eyes.

Evelyn began.

She did not read every word. She summarized much of it, then quoted one sentence.

Andre had written that he loved Taylor, but their arguments about Washington, careers and marriage had become constant.

He worried they were rushing into marriage because both feared losing each other.

Then Evelyn read:

I think we should cancel the courthouse date and figure out whether we know how to love each other without threatening to leave every time we're scared.

Taylor made a sound like air being punched from her chest.

Marcus remained silent.

Evelyn continued.

Andre had planned to talk to Taylor after the weekend.

He had not stopped loving her.

He had not planned to abandon her.

But he had wanted to postpone the wedding.

Taylor shook her head.

"No."

"Baby," Evelyn said softly, "I have the email."

"He would've told me."

"He planned to."

"No."

Marcus watched Taylor.

This was grief colliding with evidence.

For seven years, Taylor had believed she had been ten days from becoming Andre's wife.

Technically true.

Emotionally incomplete.

"He asked me to move the date up," Taylor said.

"Two months earlier," Evelyn replied.

"We bought clothes."

"I know."

"We talked about rings."

"I know."

"So why would he—"

"Because relationships change."

Taylor stood suddenly.

"You're doing this because you're angry I named the baby after him."

"No."

"You always hated how much he loved me."

Evelyn went silent.

Marcus's eyes narrowed.

"Taylor."

She ignored him.

"You thought I distracted him."

Evelyn's voice remained calm.

"I thought both of you were twenty-four and confusing intensity with stability."

Taylor disconnected the call.

She threw the phone onto the table.

Marcus stayed seated.

"Why did you do that?"

"Because she's rewriting him."

Marcus looked at her.

"Or correcting your rewrite."

Taylor glared.

"You didn't know him."

"No."

"Then stop acting like you know our relationship."

"I don't."

Marcus stood.

"But I know what an email says."

"He could have changed his mind."

"Yes."

"You don't know."

"Correct."

His refusal to argue unsettled her.

Marcus continued.

"You keep needing Andre to be certain because he can't contradict you anymore."

Taylor's face went still.

"That's cruel."

"It's what Evelyn said."

"You agree with her?"

"I think you built your life around a version of what would've happened."

Taylor began pacing.

"You think because you found one email, none of it mattered?"

"I didn't say that."

"You think he didn't love me?"

"I didn't say that either."

"Then what are you saying?"

Marcus looked directly at her.

"I'm saying maybe Andre's death didn't steal a guaranteed perfect marriage from you."

Taylor stopped.

"It stole a complicated future you never got to discover."

Her eyes filled.

Marcus's voice softened.

"And you've been competing our real marriage against an imaginary one."

Taylor slowly sat down.

That sentence landed.

Marcus understood because he had felt the competition without knowing its opponent.

Real Marcus forgot anniversaries once.

Imagined Andre never would.

Real Marcus came home exhausted and distracted.

Imagined Andre remained twenty-four, smiling in photographs.

Real Marcus argued.

Andre's arguments ended the night he died.

Death had frozen Andre at the age when possibility was endless.

Marcus had been forced to age beside a memory that never accumulated flaws.

Taylor whispered, "I never compared you."

Marcus gave her a long look.

"You named our son after him."

Taylor lowered her eyes.

Marcus sat across from her.

"When we met, did you love me?"

"Yes."

"At the beginning?"

"I grew into it."

"Did you wish I were Andre?"

"No."

"Never?"

Taylor hesitated.

Marcus noticed.

"Taylor."

"Sometimes I wished he were alive."

"That's different."

"I know."

"Did you wish I were him?"

"No."

Marcus believed that.

He did not yet know what believing it changed.

Taylor wiped her face.

"I don't know what to do with that email."

"You don't have to do anything tonight."

"I spent seven years believing we were going to get married."

"You were."

"Maybe not."

"You were planning to. He had doubts."

Taylor looked at him.

Marcus continued.

"Both can be true."

The concept seemed unbearable to her.

Grief preferred simple stories.

Perfect love interrupted by tragedy.

Not imperfect love interrupted before it could either fail or mature.

Taylor stood.

"I'm going upstairs."

Marcus watched her leave.

That evening he entered the guest room and found an envelope on his pillow.

Not Andre's letter.

A printed copy of Taylor's unsent pre-wedding confession.

At the bottom, Taylor had handwritten:

You should have received this three years ago. I cannot change that. But I won't hide from what I wrote anymore.

Marcus sat on the bed.

Underneath was another page.

A complete list of every account Taylor owned.

Checking.

Savings.

Retirement.

Brokerage.

The remaining balance from Andre's life insurance investments.

$31,482.

Marcus stared at the figure.

Taylor had voluntarily disclosed it.

At the bottom:

I am not asking you to forgive me. I'm giving you the information I should have given before you married me.

It was the first action she had taken that did not demand immediate emotional relief.

Marcus respected that.

Then he noticed one additional line.

There is one account I need to explain in person.

The next morning, Taylor showed him.

A savings account containing $19,740.

Marcus frowned.

"What is this?"

Taylor swallowed.

"Andre's memorial fund."

Marcus stared.

"What memorial fund?"

She looked him directly in the eye.

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"The one Nicole and I created without telling you."

And once again, the past opened another door.