For the first year, that laugh could make a hard day feel lighter. Celeste worked in marketing and client development at a midsize company called Westbridge Solutions. She loved crowded restaurants, last-minute weekend drives, and the kind of concerts where you couldn't hear yourself think for hours afterward. I liked Sunday mornings at home, predictable bills, and knowing there was enough fuel in the service van to get through the week. We thought our differences made us complementary, and for a long time they did.
We married in a small ceremony at a botanical garden. It rained in the morning, then cleared just before the photographs, leaving the paths glossy and the leaves bright. My father, who was already unwell, managed to stand for the family picture and told Celeste she was welcome to borrow me whenever she needed something fixed, provided she returned me before Monday. She kissed him on the cheek and promised she'd take care of me. I believed the promise because at the time there was no reason not to.
Our first place together was a two-bedroom rental on the east side of town. The kitchen was narrow, the second bedroom barely held a desk and a folding exercise bike, and the living room window looked directly at the brick wall of another building. Celeste called it temporary, which was fair enough, and began collecting photographs of houses with broad front porches and yards large enough for a dog. We spent evenings pointing out what we liked in those pictures. I cared about the plumbing and the roof; she cared about light fixtures and whether the front entrance would look beautiful with a wreath at Christmas.
Then Biscuit arrived. He was a mixed-breed rescue with ears too big for his head, a patch of pale fur across his muzzle, and the conviction that every visitor had come to see him personally. Celeste was the one who found him online and insisted we go meet him, and I was the one who spent the first week sleeping on the couch because he cried whenever the bedroom door closed. He loved her immediately, following her into the bathroom and waiting outside the shower. He tolerated me until I learned the location of the treats.
At first, our home sounded happy. Celeste cooked when she felt inspired, which meant elaborate dinners with five dirty pans and recipes she found online. I cleaned up afterward because somebody had to, and I didn't particularly mind. On Saturdays I might spend six hours working overtime while she met friends for brunch, then come home to find she'd left a funny note on the refrigerator. There were good years, and I won't pretend there weren't just because I know how the story ended.
The first time we talked seriously about buying a house was four years before the Tulum trip. A landlord had raised our rent, and Celeste came home with a folder from an open house she'd attended without telling me. The place cost more than we could afford, but it had a backyard and a kitchen island she described for days afterward. I said we could get there if we stopped talking about saving and actually started. She agreed so quickly that I thought we'd found a goal capable of holding us together when other things got difficult.