Our friends had a running joke that we made dating look impossible for everyone else.

Gwendolyn, my boss, liked repeating it at office parties.

“If Samantha and Christopher ever split, I’m done believing in love,” she would announce, raising her wineglass.

I always laughed.

I believed her because I believed we had something rare.

Christopher was my husband, but he was also my best friend, my confidant, the person whose version of events I trusted before anyone else’s.

That evening, we were getting ready for one of Gwendolyn’s formal dinner parties at her estate in Atlanta.

She hosted two each year, and an invitation usually involved enough planning that people began discussing it weeks beforehand.

I stood at the vanity fastening my second gold earring when Christopher called from downstairs.

“Are you almost ready, Sam?

I’m going to pull the car out of the garage!”

“Give me two minutes!”

“That’s what you said ten minutes ago!”

“That’s because I meant it ten minutes ago!”