“I’ll get you a real one soon as I can,” I whispered at the end of the “with this ring, I thee wed” portion.

“I don’t want another one,” she whispered back.

When it was her turn to put my ring on my finger, Shirley handed her a small cloth bag, an inch square. Mary turned it upside down, and out of it fell a small gold band. My eyes must have bulged out of my head.

“Shirley picked it up for me,” she explained. “It’s probably too big, so I got you a chain so you can wear it around your neck.”

I started crying. It was embarrassing. Tom put his hand on my shoulder, and I reached up and grabbed it. Shirley was crying too, and Mary.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the preacher said, his face red from the heat. “Go ahead, give her a kiss.”

We kissed, and it was salty from sweat. Her lips were cool, and the ring clung loosely to my finger. We must have gone on for too long, because Tom pulled me away, chuckling with embarrassment.

“Easy there,” the preacher mumbled.

The four of us laughed and cried together, and in some ways it felt like something about our friendship had also been consecrated, as if we had all been officially joined to each other. Tom was better now that the deed was done and there was nothing he could do to persuade us otherwise. He was going along with it in his normally chipper way. Shirley kept putting her arm around Mary and hugging her. At one point, Shirley put my face between her hands, pulled me down to her, and kissed me square on the mouth.

I was shocked.

“Whoa!” Tom shouted.

“This girl is practically my sister,” Shirley said earnestly, not letting go of my face. “That means you’re practically my brother-in-law.” She paused, and tears rose in her eyes again. “Take care of her.” Her voice choked up, and she shook her head. “Take good care of her.”

We drove back to Nysa, crossing the bridge only nine or ten hours after we had first made the crossing that day, but I felt like a completely new person, like decades had passed. As we reached the apex of the bridge and I stared out over the island, the river, and the trees, it felt like the four of us were arriving as completely different people. Tom seemed larger somehow, transformed into an adult during the drive. Shirley hummed to herself, tapping one of her fingers on the edge of her door. Mary rolled down her window and sat there with her eyes closed, her dark hair blowing chaotically around her face, floating.

Dreams and Open Windows

I checked on you last night, and all was well. Now it’s the morning after, and I can’t stop thinking about how Tom didn’t answer my question about taking those photos of Mary. His lack of an answer was a good enough answer, as far as I’m concerned. It makes me feel strange, the idea that he paid such close attention to her during those summers. I’m not sure how to feel about it.