Graham is asleep across from me, snoring just low enough that it blends in with the engines. His small sinuses don’t allow him to sleep sitting up—he’s a fragile man—but he refuses to get comfortable on any kind of transportation, regardless of whether it’s just the two of us. His shoes stay on, feet planted firmly on the floor, his seat only slightly reclined. I used to be the opposite—I’d slip my shoes off, sit cross-legged as I looked out the window, my coat or a blanket draped over my legs, the same way I’d be sitting if I were on the couch at home. But on our second flight to Vermont, when we were in our seats waiting for his parents to join us for what they called a “carpool,” Graham leaned in like he was about to kiss my cheek but instead moved toward my ear and whispered that I looked unprofessional. We had a status to maintain, even at thirty thousand feet. I didn’t realize until a few minutes later that our appearance was for his parents, not the airline.

The Walkers aren’t the pick you up at the airport kind of family. They’d rather pay absurd amounts of money for car services to alleviate the inconvenience of greeting their son as he arrives. Instead, we’ll show up to the house and Oskar, the family’s “house manager”—a title invented by rich white people to make themselves feel less guilty for having a full-time maid—will tell us what time to meet for dinner and we will retreat to our bedroom to “freshen up” until then.

It’s an hour drive from the airport to the house, winding down familiar roads, passing through small one-block towns filled with Victorian mansions brilliantly posed on the edge of a stream or inlet, so delicate that as quickly as you approach the town, you’re exiting and watching it blend into the trees until it completely disappears behind you. That’s why this place is divine. The trees. The most beautiful treescape you’ll ever see—green, copper, gold, and rust leaves radiate off the mountains like a bright acrylic painting. The entire place is an Instagram filter in itself, encapsulating the cottage-core, cabernet-by-the-fire vibe that twentysomething New Yorkers pay sixty dollars in Metro North fares to feel on some mountain “upstate” that’s littered with so many people it may as well just be Harlem Hill in Central Park.

I didn’t do much for this wedding, but I did pick the season. October. When the foliage is pornographically alluring, calling me into it like a shadow in the night. I’ve always had a thing for that kind of shit.