sorry I called. I wouldnât have done it if Iâd known it would upset you.â
âIâm not upset,â she lied.
âIn my defense, itâs not that late.â
She glanced at her bedside clock. Only 9:23. Dang it, he was right. Most people were still up watching the Sunday night movie.
âBut I guess,â he continued without waiting for her response, âthat pregnant women tire easily and go tobed early. These are the kinds of things Iâll have to get used to.â
Now that was a disconcerting thought. âWhy did you call, Jake?â
âI was thinking about our story.â
In the background she could hear the faint murmur of a TV. âOur story?â she asked.
The sounds faded, as if heâd just turned down the volume with the remote. âThe story of how we met, remember? We need to get our story straight, because when people find out weâre getting married, theyâre bound to ask.â
She could picture him so clearly in her mind. Lounging on that leather sofa, his legs stretched out onto the battered wood coffee table, phone in one hand, remote in the other, football game on ESPN.
Shaking her head to rid herself of the image, she said, âThatâs easy. We met at Beth and Stewâs wedding.â
âWe met at their wedding eight years ago and nowâoutta nowhereâweâre getting married? Naw, that doesnât make sense.â He chuckled. âI bet youâre a terrible liar.â
Lying in the dark, she felt distinctly disadvantaged. So she flipped on the light beside her bed, stacked a couple of spare pillows behind her and sat up. âIâm a judge. Weâre not supposed to be good liars.â
âIs that part of the job description?â he teased.
âNo, but it should be,â she said wryly. And then felt annoyed with herself for letting him lure her off the subject. âAbout this story, we should keep it as simple as possible. And close to the truth, if we can. If you think we really need one.â
âCome on, everybodyâs got a story. And when a couple gets married, everyone wants to hear it.â
âI disagree. Not everyone has an interesting story, and surely few people care enough to ask about it.â
âHow did Beth and Stew meet?â he asked.
âI donât know.â She rubbed her temple as she thought about it. âI guess it was their freshman year at UT. She was working at that little sandwich shop across from campus.â She couldnât keep from smiling as a few of the details came back to her. âEven though he was vegetarian, heâd always order a Philly cheesesteak, because they took so long to make and that gave him more time to talk toâ Wait a second. Surely youâve heard this all before.â
Jake chuckled. âOf course I have, but you just proved my point. Everybody has a story.â
âMaybe,â she reluctantly admitted.
âDefinitely. Tell me something. How did your parents meet?â
Kate chewed lightly on her lip, unsure what to say. Her parents had met in a bar during one of her motherâs frequent bouts of drunkenness. Nine months later, when Kate was born, her mom couldnât remember her loverâs name. Couldnât narrow the field of possible fathers down to just one guy, for that matter. The most Kate had ever been able to get out of her mom was, âHe was probably either the cop from Austin or the salesman from Dallas. Or the trucker from Ohio.â
Whichever guy it was, it didnât make for the kind of story she wanted to share. So she lied.
âThey were high school sweethearts. Their first date was the homecoming dance. They married young.â It wasnât entirely a lie. More an amalgamation of stories from her adopted parents and her various foster parents.
Since it would never hold up under questioning, she asked, âWhat about your parents? How did they