As Hannah and her father pass her, Cate starts to cry. She is thinking of her own father, and trying to remember when the last time was that she touched him—years ago now. And how she wants him here, in this moment, wants nothing more than for her own father to hold her like this—wants her own father to look at her like this, transfigured with pride and with love. Perhaps it is only for this that weddings are made.

Cate thinks of Lucy, and where she is—and whether she ever thinks of her. And whether she is alive or dead, and whether she will ever love anyone like that again, and how time is passing and they are all getting older, and she is crying, standing here, thinking of Lucy and of Hannah and Nathan, of her mother and how she misses her, and her father and love and of time, and how it is all so beautiful and so impossible, really.

And Hannah, listening to the words, looks at Nathan, and she thinks of when he sent her that poem—in a letter, not long after they met, when he was away from her, and she thought he had written it himself. And how she loves him. And how she is happy.

And when the serious-faced woman who is holding the ceremony turns to her and asks her if she will take this man—“Yes,” she says, “yes, I will.”

AFTERWARDS, WHEN THE cake has been eaten and the speeches have been made, Hannah finds her friends. She takes Lissa by the hand and threads through the crowd in the pub to find Cate, and takes Cate by the other hand, and leads them outside, into the May sunshine, through the gate, into the park, into London Fields. The cherry tree by the gate is heavy with blossoms.

The forecast was right: it is a beautiful day. They walk out onto the grass, and as they walk, in this golden, tipsy light, the world feels full of love, of possibility. Hannah brings her friends towards her, presses her forehead against theirs. I love you, she says. And, their heads bent to hers, Cate and Lissa murmur their love back, for this is what marriage does—it flows out beyond the couple, engendering love, engendering life, making us believe, even for an afternoon, in a happy ending, or at least, at the very least, in the expectation that a story will continue as it should.

Lissa

“YOU CAN CHANGE BEHIND THE SCREEN,” SAYS THE TEACHER. “Or go to the restrooms.”

He is young, younger than her anyway, short and wiry, dressed in a striped wool sweater and jeans. Expensive-looking glasses. Mild gray eyes.

Lissa nods. She knows the drill. She doesn’t bother to tell him she has done this many, many times before. They don’t want to hear you speak.