At thirteen, Mara fell through thin ice.
Owen jumped after her without taking off his coat.
At fifteen, Owen broke his leg playing soccer.
Mara sat beside him in the emergency room telling such absurd stories that he laughed while the doctor reset the bone.
At sixteen, they went to the winter dance.
Owen described every decoration.
Silver stars.
Blue lights.
Artificial snow.
Then he placed Mara’s hand against his chest.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Showing you the music.”
“I can hear it.”
“Not like this.”
Years later, Mara told me that was when she realized she loved him.
Owen insisted he had loved her much earlier.
During senior year, I once saw them beneath the maple tree behind our parents’ house.
Owen was tracing her ring finger.
“One day, I’m putting a wedding ring here.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“I’m aware.”
“You have no job.”
“I’ll get one.”
“You failed chemistry.”
“Completely unrelated.”
“You cannot cook eggs.”
“I’ll buy cooked eggs.”
Mara laughed.
Then her voice softened.
“Owen, you don’t have to promise me a future because you’re afraid I’ll be alone.”
His expression changed.
“I’m not afraid you’ll be alone.”
“Then what?”
“I’m afraid I’ll waste my chance to spend my life with the only person who understands me.”
Mara went quiet.
Then she asked:
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Owen looked toward the house.
