Tiny moments. A moved plate, a backhanded compliment, an uninvited refill. But the hair on my neck stood up. Even that first night, my gut told me these were tests.

I looked at Corey, waiting for him to intervene, to defend my work, to pass the potatoes. He was deeply occupied cutting his meat, eyes down. He was a ghost at his own family’s table.

On the porch afterward, the cold air felt like oxygen. Lorraine hugged me in a way that felt more like restraint, squeezing my arms, her mouth at my ear.

“Corey is my whole world, Danielle.” The sweetness was gone from her voice. “We’re going to be so very close.”

It wasn’t a welcome. It was a declaration.

Chapter 3 — The White Dress

We moved into a sunlit apartment together that February. By spring the man who fixed my faucet was on one knee. I said yes.