That poor judgment came into even sharper focus just after Thanksgiving the previous year when he started hinting about marriage. First, he slipped a comment about her dainty hands into an otherwise casual conversation, guessing that she probably wore a size-five ring. Then, as Christmas approached, he struck up a conversation about diamonds, as if she might not notice his clumsy attempt to ascertain her preferences.

He was stumbling toward a proposal, and Lila reacted like a woman standing in the path of an avalanche. She responded to his diamond inquiry by blathering for half an hour about the evils of blood diamonds. Then she made up a story about a law school friend who argued that the notion of marriage proposals, as a tradition, should go the way of hoop skirts.

That Christmas, instead of an engagement ring, Joe gave her a spa day gift certificate.

By Valentine’s Day, he had completely given up, his surrender signaled one night in bed as they watched a news story about a woman who organized a flash mob to propose to her boyfriend. At the end of the piece, Joe rolled over to Lila and said that it was good that women also took the lead in such things.

As Lila often did when their discussions touched on marriage, she unconsciously reached a hand up the sleeve of her T-shirt and rubbed her biceps. That’s when Joe reached his hand up to her arm as well, resting his palm on the back of her hand, his index finger gently touching one of her scars, pressing a fret on a guitar eight years out of tune. When he spoke again, it was as if to apologize.

“I just think that the girl—the woman—should have just as much right to say when the time is right as the man. And if that time ever came…” Joe didn’t finish his thought, and although Lila wanted desperately to say something hopeful, no words came out. In the silence, Joe rolled back over and fixed his eyes on the TV.

Lila may as well have yelled in his face that she didn’t want to marry him. But that wasn’t true. She loved Joe, loved him more than she thought she would ever love a man. In those moments when she allowed herself to dream about the future, she always saw Joe at her side. She wanted to tell that it wasn’t him—it was her—but those words sounded hurtful and trite, so she said nothing.

Over their six years together, Lila had done her best to convince Joe—to convince herself—that she had moved past what had happened to her that night. In truth, she had survived, but she had not healed, and deep down she knew it. Keeping that from Joe meant that he really didn’t know her. How could he? He didn’t know about the sharp fragments of doubt that floated loose in her blood. The woman Joe knew, the strong, fierce Lila Nash, had been constructed out of spare parts. How could she marry Joe when she still kept so much from him?