Eric worried, most of all, that Copper Creek, meant to be his auspicious debut, might become his one and only book, when it was not what he had to say about life at all. He was beginning to realize that this was the same fear he had about his marriage, which, embarked upon in the year after his book’s release, had essentially the same shelf life. One could compare the engagement to the period of prepublication—both had lasted about six months, felt exciting, and involved the design and selection of a number of glossy publicity materials. The marriage itself, beset with unsatisfying travel, ever-present anxiety, and attacks on his self-esteem, was like the first year of publication.

He had rushed into things, had been too eager to prove that he was a real adult and a real writer. He had competed with other people, had noticed, on Facebook and in his own mailbox, that other people were blissfully (smugly) getting married and publishing novels. He had developed a preoccupation with the ages of people who were marking milestones in their lives—book, marriage, child—and calculating how far behind he was falling. He had signed on with an agent before his novel was really finished, and had felt obligated to turn it over to her quickly.

Likewise, he had proposed to Christine after only three months of dating, without a ring or any real forethought. They had been to a concert by a popular nouveau bluegrass band. The band had returned to the stage for a ten-minute encore, and everyone in the audience had sung along:

Baby take off your apron I’ll get my hat

Come on, it’s just as simple as that

We’re going to townnnn

Accustomed to standing motionless at interminable experimental performances, or vaguely keening at indie rock shows, or crossing his arms across his chest at rap concerts, Eric had been stirred by the band’s easy, welcoming harmonies, by how good it felt to like something that everyone else agreed was worth liking, worth going out of your way for and even looking a little silly for (the band members, guys in their twenties, all wore straw hats and suspenders, but no shoes). He resolved then and there that he was through with things that were pointlessly difficult, unreasonable, hostile. How could he mark this moment? he wondered. Several of the band’s songs were about weddings, and the idea of proposing came to him as they were walking back to their car with a large, jolly crowd of fellow concertgoers. He’d gotten down on one knee in a patch of gravel spotlit by an amber streetlight, and the crowd had slowed to watch him deliver his proposal, which even now he remembered as powerful and sincere. They clapped when Christine said yes, and did not seem to notice the lack of a ring.

It was not the first time he’d proposed.

Or even the second.