A reception was never on the table. Between rent, utilities, and the hospital bills that kept arriving for my mother, there just wasn’t anything left over. I’d made my peace with it. Mostly.
“So,” Enzo said as we walked down the courthouse steps, “where does a married couple go to celebrate?”
I already knew the answer.
Five years earlier, Enzo had taken me on our first date to a fast-food place across from the bus station. We’d sat in the corner booth by the window, shared a basket of fries, and talked until the staff started stacking chairs.
So that’s where we went.
We ordered burgers and two milkshakes and slid into the same booth. The girl at the counter waved at Enzo by name.
“You come here that often?” I teased.
“Often enough that they know my order,” he said. “That’s what we are now, Cait. Married and broke.”
