I proposed to Kinsley at a quiet overlook outside the city on an evening when the leaves were turning copper and gold. I was nervous enough to forget the sentence I had practiced, so I told her instead that I didn't know what our life would be like in twenty years but knew I wanted to find out with her. She cried, then laughed because I was crying too, and said yes before I had fully opened the ring box. Later, when I explained the history of the diamond, she held my grandmother's ring beneath the light and promised she understood what it meant.
For the first year of our engagement, I believed that promise without reservation. We saved together, argued amiably over menu choices, and visited so many possible venues that their stone courtyards and painted ceilings began to blur together. We eventually chose Willow Creek Manor, just outside Dublin, Ohio, because Kinsley loved the garden and I liked the way the ballroom windows faced the sunset. We stood beneath an arch covered in climbing vines and imagined our families sitting together on November twelfth.
The venue required a substantial deposit, as did the photographer, the caterer, and the florist. I had the larger savings account and offered to cover most of the early payments, with the understanding that we would balance things as Kinsley's own expenses became more predictable. I didn't keep a running score in our relationship, but I did keep receipts, because the numbers still mattered whether or not anyone wanted to think about them. By the time the invitations were ready, I had paid nearly twelve thousand dollars out of my personal savings.
My mother, Carol, helped us select music for the ceremony. Kinsley's parents, Frank and Linda Henderson, offered to host the rehearsal dinner and were proud that their daughter had found someone they considered dependable. Her father owned a construction company and liked men who arrived when they said they would, which meant he and I got along from the beginning. He once told me over a barbecue that he slept easier knowing Kinsley would be with someone who looked after the things he loved.
I remember that conversation now for reasons that have nothing to do with the food. Frank was sitting on our back steps with a paper plate balanced on his knee, watching Kinsley dance with her mother beneath the patio lights. He said that being married meant sometimes doing the right thing when the right thing was inconvenient. I agreed with him, and I meant it. I didn't understand yet that a person can believe in an ideal and still teach themselves a very different set of rules when someone they once loved comes back into their life.