I remember him straightaway, even though it’s been over a year since the first and only time I ever saw him, even though I must’ve only spent a grand total of forty-five minutes in his quiet, forbidding presence. That day, he’d come in late—his fiancée already here in the shop, their final appointment to approve the treatment I’d done for their wedding. Save the dates, invitations, place cards, the program—anything that needed letters, I was doing it, and the truth is, by then I’d been almost desperate to finish the job, to get a break. I’d been freelancing for a few years before I came to Brooklyn, but once I started contracting for Cecelia exclusively, handling all the engagement and wedding jobs that came through the shop, word about my work had spread with a speed that was equal parts thrilling and overwhelming. Jobs coming so quickly I’d had to turn more than a few down, which only seemed to increase interest. During the day my head would teem with my clients’ demands and deadlines; at night my hands would ache with tension and fatigue. I’d sit on the couch, my right hand weighted with a heated bag of uncooked rice to ease its cramping, and I’d breathe out the stress from meetings that would sometimes see couples and future in-laws turn brittle with wedding-related tension, my job to smile and smooth ruffled feathers, sketching out soft, romantic things that would please everyone. I’d wonder whether it was time to get out of the wedding business altogether.

The fiancée—Avery, her name was, blond and willowy and almost always dressed in something blush or cream or ice blue or whatever color I’d be just as likely to ruin with ink or coffee or ketchup—had been nice to work with, focused and polite, a good sense of herself and what she wanted, but not resistant to Cecelia’s suggestions about paper or my suggestions about the lettering. A few times, in our initial meetings, I’d asked about her fiancé, whether she’d want me to send scans to his e-mail, too, or whether she’d want to try to find a weekend meeting time if it’d make it easier for him to come. She’d always wave her slim-fingered left hand, the one with the tiny ice rink on it that looked almost identical to the rings of at least three other brides I’d been working with that spring, and she’d say, pleasantly, “Reid will like whatever I like.”

But I’d insisted on it, him being there for the final meeting.

And I’d regretted it later. Meeting him. Meeting them together.

I regret it even more now.