“I am aware of that possibility,” said Oliver, with an air of reluctance. “I would prefer, however, to address it only in the event it arises.”

“Okay. Only—” I stopped. Because what I could ask? I knew what I wanted to ask, which was for him to promise he’d be fine, no matter how this went, and I definitely wasn’t going to wake up tomorrow to an empty bed and a fully dressed Oliver saying, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. But that wasn’t fair.

Oliver’s eyes flicked to mine in the rearview mirror. “Only what?”

“Sorry. Nothing.”

And while that wasn’t usually the sort of thing Oliver let slide, today I guess we were both trying to trust each other.

I guess we both needed to.

“Podcast?” I offered hopefully—though, what with the proposing and ring buying and parent wrangling, I’d lost track of what Oliver was into at the moment.

He shook his head. “I’d rather not. Is it okay if we just drive quietly?”

“Sure,” I said. Because what else could I say? I mean, it kind of wasn’t okay. Not because I was desperate to listen to a podcast but because I was incredibly worried that Oliver didn’t want to. Listening to documentaries and whimsical radio dramas was the closest he got to vegging out. So I hated to think what he was feeling right now that even This American Life couldn’t soothe him.

It didn’t entirely surprise me that Miriam and David Blackwood had insisted on taking their vegan son to a gastropub with exactly one vegan option on the menu. After Oliver had ordered his superfood salad, and I’d ordered the same out of masochistic solidarity, his parents tortured the waiter for a while—David by demanding a fillet steak with a very specific set of instructions about how it should be prepared and Miriam by politely but unswayably insisting they make her a vegetable risotto that wasn’t currently on the menu.

Once that had been resolved to their satisfaction, we all sat in silence until David Blackwood finally said, “So you’re still getting married, then?”

“Yes,” replied Oliver, sounding calmer than the tension in his jawline showed me he felt. “And we’d like you to be there.”

Miriam, who had been checking the cutlery for cleanliness, set down her fork. “Well of course we’ll be there, darling. That was never in question. We just want to be sure you’re making the right decision.”

Given that the Blackwoods seemed determined to talk as if I wasn’t in the room, I was beginning to wish I hadn’t been.

“I’ve already told you”—Oliver’s voice got calmer and his jaw got tenser—“that I am. And it’s not up for debate.”

“But marriage,” protested Miriam, “when you’re still so young.”