Poppy and Lisa started dating John and Scott around the same time.

John was part of the small crew hired to renovate the patio of Luigi’s, where Poppy and Lisa waited tables. The project only took a month, but in that time John became friendly with the restaurant staff, who would bring him lemonade and garlic bread when they could sneak it without the manager noticing.

John had dropped out of high school several years earlier, when his father died and his mother spiraled into depression. John was already working construction in the summertime, and his grades were not good enough to propel him into any other field, so he left school in order to support his mother until she was able to get back on her feet. That never really happened, so John never returned to school and never left construction.

Poppy asked him out on a date as the renovation project at Luigi’s was wrapping up. She liked his crooked, pinched-off smile and gentle eyes. She said, “So are you going to take me out to dinner or what?” He stared at her like she’d just asked if he wanted to go to Mars. She said, “Good God, that’s a look! You’re about to offend me. So sleep on it, then. I get off around eight tomorrow.”

John was waiting in the parking lot the next night at 7:45. He wore khaki pants and an ill-fitting jacket over a flannel shirt. They went to dinner at the Half Moon Diner, spent four hours there, and then kissed outside her house.

Soon things got hot and heavy, but John didn’t want to go all the way and sleep together until they were married, because his parents had raised him that way. When Poppy learned this, a few more dates in, she proposed on the spot. They got married at the courthouse two weeks later. Everyone said they were acting like total maniacs except for Lisa, who knew Poppy better than anyone.

For their honeymoon, they spent one night at a cottage on Middle Creek Lake. They picked up groceries on their way to the cottage, and John stunned Poppy that evening by roasting a chicken. He explained that he had been doing the cooking at home since his mom had lost the will to look after herself.

Poppy was John’s first. John was Poppy’s . . . well, who was counting? John didn’t seem to give a shit. Poppy was prepared to tell, but she was relieved when it was apparent that John wasn’t going to press her for a number.

She got up early the next morning to make him breakfast, eager to impress her new husband, especially after his masterpiece the night before. She had never cooked an actual meal in her life, outside of cereal and toast and powdered macaroni and cheese from a box.

Thirty minutes later, she delivered John a rubbery, grayish omelet the size of a pizza, on a serving platter meant for hors d’oeuvres.