When he proposed to her in the strawberry patch and when she said “I do”, he was at his happiest—the kind of happy that only comes around once in twenty lifetimes, the kind of happy that exists in the fairy tales we tell our children, the kind of happy you stop believing in once you become sixteen and ill-humored, but the kind of happy that permeates the world of strawberry patch proposals and wet smiles and hazy visions of a golden future...sooner or later, though, one must wake up from the dreams and return to the world of snappish words and slammed doors and rings left on kitchen counters. Steven never understood why she became what she became. And he’ll never understand why she is standing here, in the dull glow of his front porch light, asking to stay the night—on the couch, of course—and to leave before the sun rises over the hills, before it rises over the unwashed windows, before it rises over the remnants of what they once were, so they don’t have to speak to one another, to break the fragile peace they’ve spun and bring the whole house crumbling down on their heads from the force of it; so despite the ache of his throat, despite the tremor in his voice, despite the years and years of knowing and hoping and rotting strawberries, he lets her in.