One evening, about four years after Peter’s accident, we were sitting on my back porch watching the sun sink behind the trees. He had brought Chinese food, I had poured us each a glass of wine.
Dan set his glass down and stared at his hands.
My heart started pounding.
“Dan…”
“I’m in love with you, Isabel.” His voice was quiet but steady. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time. And I know it’s complicated. I know Pete was my best friend. But it’s the truth.”
You’d think I would have been shocked. But I wasn’t. Somewhere deep down, I had known. Maybe for months. Maybe longer.
“It’s not wrong,” I said. “Because I feel it too.”
He looked at me then, eyes wet.
“Are you sure? Because I cannot be another loss you regret someday.”
“I’m sure,” I answered, and I realized I truly was.
We sat with it. Talked about it. Checked ourselves over and over to make sure it wasn’t just loneliness or grief in disguise.
After six steady, honest months, we began to tell people.
My son shook Dan’s hand and said quietly, “Dad would want Mom to be happy.”
My daughter cried, then hugged us both and called us idiots for taking so long.
The person I feared telling most was Peter’s mother. She had lost her only child. How could I say, “I’m marrying his best friend”?
I invited her over for coffee, my hands trembling around the mug.
“I need to talk to you about Dan,” I began.
“You’re with Daniel,” she said simply.
I stared. “How did you know?”
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