email thread with the photographer, and a contract with the venue that included a complicated cancellation schedule. I didn't open the folder because I wanted to frighten Lauren. I opened it because the thing she had said about what marriage would feel like had forced me to consider whether continuing toward that marriage was responsible.
I read the venue agreement once, then again. The closer we got to the event date, the more money we would owe if we canceled, so waiting had a measurable cost. The photographer had a different clause, and the caterer required written notice rather than a telephone cancellation. I wrote down the relevant dates on a blank sheet of paper. It felt strange to be examining legal terms while there was still a half-finished cup of Lauren's coffee on the kitchen counter.
She appeared in the office doorway about fifteen minutes later. "What are you doing?" she asked. I said I was checking the wedding contracts. She frowned and asked why I was looking at them now, and I asked whether she still intended to take the trip with Chris. She replied yes, then qualified it with probably, then said she wasn't going to cancel her life because I felt threatened.
"I'm not asking you to cancel your life," I told her. "I'm asking you to consider whether we're ready to make vows when we can't discuss something this important without a public fight." She folded her arms and said I was being cold and dramatic. I told her I had spent the previous evening and most of that morning trying to speak calmly, while she had spent part of it inviting strangers to judge me. She said I didn't understand how she processed emotions and had no right to dictate what she posted.
Then she said, "Fine. Maybe we should rethink getting married if you're going to be like this." I looked at her and realized I had been afraid of that sentence for months, even though neither of us had said it aloud. There had been a time when I would have responded with reassurance, with apologies, with another attempt to prove I wasn't trying to control her. This time I said, "Maybe you're right."
Lauren stared at me. She seemed to expect another sentence, something she could reject or negotiate around. When I returned my eyes to the screen, she scoffed and said I was impossible to talk to. She walked away, and a few moments later the bedroom door closed. I stayed in my chair looking at the contracts, hearing her words repeat in my head until they stopped sounding like a threat and started sounding like a reasonable question.