“I prefer to be a one-man show when it comes to celebrating my bride.” Fitz doesn’t give me a chance to respond beyond my jaw dropping. Without breaking his hold on my hand, he stands. “Let’s have a first,” he says.

I let him gently tug me to my feet. “A first what?”

Fitz leads me to the ballroom floor just as the music slows. “A first dance.”

Of all the things we’ve done together, I find it hard to believe dancing isn’t one of them. “We’ve never danced?”

“Unless you include the Macarena in fourth grade,” Fitz says, pulling me against him. “No.”

I raise an eyebrow. We probably went to close to ten school dances between middle and high school. “Are you sure?”

Fitz leans forward. “Do you think I could forget?”

And for the next few minutes, I don’t search for seconds of truth in the running film of this grand spectacle we’re producing. Instead, I split myself, becoming both the actor and the audience, so that I’m able to enjoy both feeling and seeing what it’s like to be held by someone who believes I’m worth holding.

I can see how amazing it looks—how amazing we look—not just in this moment but over the course of a lifetime and all the stages of hand-holding we’ve done together.

I see us running in the lush, manicured grass of Captain’s Cottage as we battled imaginary enemies.

I see us sprinting off the dock and into the water even though we were told to come in for dinner, our hold not breaking below the surface.

I see us hours before I was taken, when Fitz grabbed my hand, leading me to the bleachers.

And then, I see who came after him when we were separated.

Fitz senses my unease. “What’s wrong?”

My eyes focus so hard that my head takes on a dull throb.

Fitz goes to loosen his hold on me and create space between us, but I dig my fingers into his shoulder. He grows tense, almost as much as I do, but he finally outpowers me, stepping back and brushing my arms. “You’ve got goosebumps.”

I can’t be bothered thinking about goosebumps. I’ve got all my attention directed across the room on an auburn-red mane fastened back into a perfect braid.

A Dutch braid. My eyes home in on the back of her head—Sarah’s head. I have to remember to breathe. But that isn’t easy when it feels like my heart is lodged in the middle of my throat.

“Parker?”

I don’t answer Fitz, and instead watch as someone approaches the server who is passing champagne and she turns, giving me her profile.