There’s a sharp contrast between inside and out. Dark falls early in New England in the winter. It’s been as black as coal dust outside the windows for over an hour. Only the glow of a single streetlight across the road illuminates our snow-shrouded neighborhood. We’ve been in the house not quite a year, yet it feels like home. It’s an older place, almost historic, and the nooks and crannies and gleaming woodwork appealed to me right away. Inside, the house is bright, alive with friends and my perfect husband. I feel safe here.

The cake is a work of art and sits boxed in the fridge, hidden until the big moment. Jay didn’t want a huge bash, just our best friends, good wine, and food. It should be a wonderful night. Should being the operative word. I’m praying I don’t spoil it.

I stand at the granite counter, arrange the finger foods I’d ordered from our favorite café on the square. Everything looks delicious, if only I had an appetite. Instead, I pick up my wine, a rich Malbec we picked up on a trip to California last summer, and take a sip. Jay comes up behind me and wraps me in his arms, rests his chin on the top of my head. I love his touch, his strong arms that make me feel safe and grounded, the smell of his woodsy cologne. I sigh, and a tear escapes and runs down my cheek.

“Hey.” He turns me to face him and wipes it away with his thumb. “None of that, okay? We’ve got this.”

I nod, sniff. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He crushes me in his arms and skims his lips half on my mouth, half on my chin, a light reassuring kiss. “Everything’s going to be fine, Molly.”

At six-thirty, our friends started arriving, bringing winter air and a few stray snowflakes with them through the front door. There were hugs and kisses, presents, although I told everyone Jay didn’t want any.

Kim, my best friend since second grade, and her husband, Josh, an old friend of Jay’s, sit on the sofa. We introduced them shortly after Jay and I started dating. Kim is petite, dark-haired, with big brown eyes, a former cheerleader. She’s as extroverted as I am quiet, but we complement one another.

Cal, Jay’s hockey buddy, and his wife, Laken, a tall, beautiful blonde, sit in dining room chairs carried in to provide more seating. Laken owns a day spa in town, and at the door, she’d pressed a thick, cream-colored envelope into Jay’s hand. A massage gift certificate, no doubt. Laken and I’ve gotten to be good friends too.

And Elise and Scott. Dr. Elise Westmore is Jay’s partner in a family therapy practice, and they round out our group. The Westmores are older than we are, both in their early fifties. Jay met Elise in grad school, and they hit it off. He calls her the big sister he never had.

“Who wants what?” Jay asks, the Malbec bottle in his hand. Glasses are raised, and he pours, then slips behind the bar for a second bottle. “Cal, you want a beer instead? I just made a Trillium run.”