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and promise, but in that moment I felt I needed to separate myself. The preacher’s forceful words unsettled me. I was glad the netting covered my face. The words he used, like
covenant
and
sacrament
, sounded ominous. Now I felt like a mischievous schoolchild being scolded by the principal rather than the dressed-up, grown-up woman I’d been looking at in my mirror.
    As the preacher carried on, I pretended to adjust my netting, worried that Charles could see my concern, wondering if he really loved me as he’d said he did. I reminded myself that everyone in the family had whispered that I was pregnant; otherwise, why would I marry before I finished high school? One of my aunts had marked her calendar, waiting for me to start showing. The preacher’s funereal tone of voice made me question what the rush had been anyway. I suddenly felt I might need some more time to think. Yes, he’d been my best friend for the past three years, and so I’d been convinced I knew Charles well. Until now. Did I know him well enough to bind myself to him forever? If Charles was thinking the same thing, he didn’t flinch. That reassured me a little, but I continued fidgeting to avoid looking him in the eyes. My head itched like I had a swarm of mosquitoes under my hat. When the preacher made us stand up and started the official ceremony, I thought I was going to faint. I could barely repeat my vows. I couldn’t help but think that if he had given us the same sermon the day before, I’d have backed out. As it was, I was dressed and we were already there. I decided we’d just have to follow through and hope it worked out.
    In the car, it seemed that Charles had been stirred up by the preacher’s words after all. All the way to Atlanta, where we plannedto celebrate our honeymoon, we didn’t say a word. Neither of us even spoke up to say we needed to stop for a restroom break. When we got to the motel, we both ran straight to the bathrooms before even glancing at the man behind the desk or bothering to check in. It wasn’t until we stood in front of Rich’s department store, listening to Christmas music, admiring the winter wonderland and watching Mr. and Mrs. Claus wave to the shoppers, that our mood finally lifted.
    W HEN WE returned from our weekend honeymoon, Charles still hadn’t finished building our new house, so we lived at my parents’ house. In the mornings I had to blink twice when I saw Charles, not Granny Mac, sprawled in the twin bed across the room from me. Granny Mac had moved in with my aunt Lucille, where she’d lived before. She was still nearby, but I secretly missed the sound of her bustling around in the early-morning light as she wrapped her long dark braid in a bun around her head. I’d forgotten how irritated I used to get when she rummaged through my belongings. Instead, I remembered all the times I was upset with my mother and Granny Mac sat me down on the bed. She’d scoot out her wooden trunk, tucked under her bed. Handing me a gold bracelet or her opal ring to wear, remnants of the life she lived before my grandfather left her widowed so young, she smiled and hummed as she set her hand-painted teacups on the quilt for us to play tea.
    Now when I opened my eyes, Charles shared the bedroom I’d slept in since I was seven, its walls plastered with pictures of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. His large frame almost swallowed the small bed. On the weekends, Charles and I spent the night at his family’s house in his childhood bedroom, his younger brother and sister following us around and staring at us like we were aliens from Mars who’d landed in the cornfield.
    After we married, I went back to school. The only difference in my routine was that when I came home in the afternoons, I joinedCharles, my father, and his uncles to help finish the house Charles was building for us. I completed my homework later in the evening, when it was too dark to work.
    That April, the day I turned eighteen, we moved into