If someone had asked me to describe hell, I wouldn't have said fire. I would have said yellow. Yellow ribbons tied around white columns, yellow roses spilling over antique milk cans, yellow napkins folded into ridiculous swans, sunflowers the size of dinner plates staring at me from every available surface as though they'd all gathered to witness my punishment personally.

The South had a way of committing to a theme. My cousin Krista had committed war crimes. I stood at the entrance of the reception barn, though calling it a barn felt dishonest. It was a cathedral disguised with reclaimed wood and expensive lighting, filter toward the seating chart. The smell of barbecue mingled with magnolias.

Country music drifted lazily through the warm evening [00:01:00] air. Mason jars glowed with candles while children chased one another across perfectly manicured grass. Everyone looked like they belonged in a wedding magazine. Everyone except me. Not because of the dress.

The deep emerald fabric hugged every curve I possessed without crossing into trying too hard territory.

I wasn't tall enough to intimidate anyone, nor delicate enough to disappear in a crowd, just compact. My medium-length brown hair had finally decided to cooperate after an hour with a curling iron, and the freckles dusted across my nose had survived the foundation I'd carefully applied.

I caught myself in the mirror before leaving the hotel. "Not bad, Samantha. Not bad for someone attending the wedding of a cousin who'd spent fifteen years pretending she barely existed." Krista [00:02:00] spotted me from across the room. Her smile was flawless, practiced, the kind reserved for photographers and distant relatives.

She hugged me with exactly the amount of enthusiasm required to avoid gossip. "So glad you made it." "I wouldn't miss it." Another practiced smile. Neither of us meant what we'd said. We'd separated before silence became obvious. Fifteen years.

It was remarkable how one stupid summer could become the foundation of an entire relationship, or the absence of one. I was 13 when everything went wrong. I'd spent nearly every summer growing up at Aunt Linda's house. Krista and I had been inseparable until that year.

We rode bikes until sunset, climbed trees, built forts, whispered secrets beneath [00:03:00] blankets long after we were supposed to be asleep. Then she'd gotten sick during my last week there. Some nasty virus that kept her inside while I wandered the neighborhood alone. Aunt Linda sent me outside so I didn't catch Krista's cooties, as she called it.

That's when I met the boy down the street. He wasn't remarkable at first, just another kid with scraped knees and messy brown hair who'd asked if I wanted to race bicycles. So we did. We raced until our legs burned. We climbed the jungle gym at the park, shared a melting popsicle from the ice cream truck that wandered the streets each summer.

We talked about comic books and school and places we wanted to visit someday. He made me laugh, really laugh. On my last afternoon before heading home, we'd sat beneath the enormous oak tree at the edge of the park. Neither of us knew [00:04:00] what to say. Leaving felt bigger than summer should have felt.

Then he leaned over just enough to kiss me. It was my first kiss, and like most first kisses, it was both awkward and sweet with way too much saliva and neither of us knowing what to do with our hands. So innocent that I'd spent the entire ride home touching my lips, wondering why the world suddenly looked different. We both got so excited about our innocent romance, but I was leaving soon, so we'd promised to write. He promised first. I promised second. And I couldn't wait to tell Krista. I ran back to her house, and after my Aunt Linda told me she was okay to visit, I ran through her bedroom door and told her about my very first kiss with the boy down the street.

I thought she would be excited. We had spent [00:05:00] nights under the covers with our flashlights dreaming about what our first kisses would be like, but she wasn't excited at all. Instead, she cried. The wounded kind. The kind that leaves you confused because you don't even know what you've done.

It turns out that she'd liked him all summer, the same boy. Everyone knew, except me. I apologized over and over, but she didn't care. She got so angry with me and then threw a Krista-sized tantrum. He was mine. I didn't know. Well, you should have. I remember staring at her because I genuinely didn't understand how I was supposed to know something she'd never told me.

Then summer ended, and I went back home to Illinois. His letter never came. Mine never got sent because I realized that I never had his [00:06:00] address to begin with. Then I waited longer. Eventually, I started high school and convinced myself he'd forgotten me.

Krista never really forgave me. The summers at her house were never the same. Krista began to include her debutante friends who I had nothing in common with, and I never saw the boy down the street.

I didn't have the courage to ask Krista what happened to him. Neither of us figured out how to become cousins again. The seating chart almost made me laugh. Almost. There were two singles tables.

The first sat directly beside the dance floor, clearly made up of Krista's sorority friends, besties from high school, and her new husband's best friends. The centerpieces were ornate. They had the good wine and the cute individualized party favors. This was definitely a prime location [00:07:00] reserved for friends of the bride and groom, the people who clearly mattered in their lives.

Then there was the other singles table, mine. Located somewhere next to a structural support beam near the kitchen doors. I half expected someone to wheel dirty dishes past us between courses.

Our centerpiece leaned. One candle refused to stay lit, and I couldn't help but notice that we didn't have the fancy party favors, but just a small sachet of Jordan almonds haphazardly thrown on the table. The collection of people seated there looked as though someone had emptied the wedding RSVP spreadsheet into a hat and drawn names randomly.

A distant uncle, someone's college roommate, a cousin from another side, an elderly woman who spent fifteen minutes explaining competitive quilting, a man in his forties glued to his phone, and [00:08:00] him. Brown hair, brown eyes, easy smile. Well, at least this wedding wasn't a total loss. Brian was nice looking, and there was something friendly and familiar in his eyes.

You must be Samantha. His voice carried warmth without trying. "I'm Brian." He pulled out my chair before sitting again. Small gesture. "My condolences," I said. He blinked. For being assigned to exile with the rest of us freaks.

His grin spread instantly. "I thought we were at the VIP table." "Oh? We're closest to the kitchen." I laughed before I could stop myself. "Unlimited rolls." "Exactly." His smile somehow got bigger. I knew there had to be a reason. The evening passed without my noticing. That surprised me most.

Usually, weddings stretch endlessly, especially this one, [00:09:00] with all the choreographed dances and bridal outfit changes. But tonight, the conversation flowed, especially with my handsome tablemate.

Brian listened, really listened. He asked questions because he wanted answers rather than opportunities to tell his own stories. We talked about work, travel, books, music, embarrassing childhood memories. He admitted he'd once broken his arm trying to jump a bicycle over three trash cans.

I confessed I'd accidentally set microwave popcorn on fire in college. He laughed so hard people glanced toward our table. His laugh was contagious, comfortable, like we'd somehow skipped the awkward getting-to-know-you stage. Every time someone interrupted us, we somehow drifted back together.

When dinner ended, he asked me to dance. I almost said [00:10:00] no, mostly because I hadn't danced in years, and frankly, I didn't want to give Krista the satisfaction of knowing I was actually having fun. Instead, I let him lead me onto the dance floor. The band slowed. His hand settled gently against my back. It was steady and firm.

"I've got you," he said quietly. "I sincerely doubt that." "Well, I believe in miracles." I smiled despite myself. We danced through one song. He made jokes in my ear about his bad dancing and the yellow explosion all around us. He laughed. God, that laugh. Then we danced to one of those upbeat line dances that had us both laughing because neither of us knew the steps.

At one point, I caught Krista watching us. Her expression was unreadable. Then someone pulled her away, and for once, I didn't [00:11:00] care. Outside, the summer air wrapped around us like warm silk. The reception continued behind us. Music floated through the open doors, and fireflies blinked across the fields.

Brian leaned against the porch railing. "You know," he said thoughtfully. "What?" "You really don't remember me?" I frowned. His smile became softer, almost nervous. "I was wondering how long it'd take." A strange feeling settled in my chest. "What do you mean?" He studied me for a second, then laughed quietly. "I guess 15 years changes a person."

I stared. Brown eyes, kind, familiar somehow. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I used to live three houses down from Krista." My heartbeat stumbled. [00:12:00] No. We raced bicycles. Everything inside me froze. We climbed the park jungle gym. There was an oak tree. I couldn't breathe.

You kissed me goodbye. His smile was triumphant. It was almost disbelieving, like he'd been carrying the memory just as long as I had. My voice barely worked. "Tommy?" He shook his head, laughing. "Brian." My eyes widened. Oh my God. My middle name was Thomas. Everyone called me Tommy back then.

I covered my mouth. You.

Brian's next sentence explained 15 years of heartbreak, and I'm saving that for subscribers.

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