Thirty seconds before I was supposed to promise Reed Callahan the rest of my life, he looked past my shoulder at a group of strangers sitting in the back row of our wedding and quietly asked the officiant to stop.
At first, I thought he was joking.
Reed sometimes did that when he was nervous. He would say something completely serious with a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth, wait until I reacted, and then laugh.
But he wasn’t smiling.
We were standing under two old maple trees at a county park outside Madison, Wisconsin. My hands were wrapped around his. Behind him, our friend Paul held the little leather book he had bought after we asked him to officiate.
Eighty-something people were watching us.
My parents were in the first row. My sister Dana was crying even though nothing emotional had happened yet. Reed’s best friend was standing beside him, already sweating through the collar of his shirt.
