The Plans We Made

He saw her again today.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said with fake enthusiasm. She didn’t respond, but she was never much of a talker.

The world is quiet this time of day—late afternoon on a Thursday, when most people are still at work. The grass is freshly cut, leaving that sweet green smell hanging in the air. He notices these things now. The small details. The way light filters through oak leaves. The weight of the flowers in his hand—peonies, of course, though they're out of season and cost him twice what they should have.

"I've been thinking about the kitchen again," he says, hands folded in front of him like he's trying to behave. "You were right. White cabinets would've been too sterile. We should've gone with the sage green. Warm. Lived-in. Like something out of one of those magazines you pretend not to read."

He can still see her at the bookstore, casually flipping through Better Homes and Gardens while insisting she was "just killing time." She'd dog-ear pages when she thought he wasn't looking, then act surprised when he'd reference them later. "I don't remember that," she'd say, fighting a smile.

The wind moves through the trees behind him, dry and patient.

"I found that farmhouse sink you liked," he continues. "Apron-front. Ridiculously impractical. I bought it anyway. It's sitting in my garage right now. Still in the crate. I keep meaning to return it, but…" He shrugs. "I don't know. Feels wrong to send it back."

He'd been scrolling through his phone at two in the morning when he found it on a salvage website. The same one she'd shown him on her laptop, the night they'd stayed up too late planning a future that felt so certain then. She'd pulled up at least fifteen different kitchen designs. "We're not getting a pot filler over the stove," he'd said, laughing. She'd turned to him with mock seriousness. "Fine. But I'm dying on the farmhouse sink hill."

He smiles faintly.

"You would've said I was being dramatic."

He shifts, elbows resting on his knees. His hands are rougher now than they were a year ago. He's been working with them more—building things, fixing things, keeping busy. His garage is full of half-finished projects: a bookshelf, a coffee table, a cradle he started and couldn't bring himself to complete.

"I talked to Mr. Holloway about that plot of land near the creek. Remember? The one with the old sycamore tree. He's finally ready to sell. Took him long enough. You always said if we waited, it would come around."

They'd driven past it dozens of times, always slowing down at the bend in the road. She'd press her hand against the window like a kid in a candy store. "That's it," she'd say every time. "That's where we build." He'd been more practical, pointing out the flood plain, the distance from town. She'd just smile. "You'll see. It'll be perfect."

He lets out a soft breath.

"I put a deposit down."

The check had sat on his kitchen counter for three days before he finally drove it over. Holloway had looked at him with something like pity, which he hated, but also understanding, which he needed. "She had good taste," Holloway had said. "That sycamore's been there longer than I have."

There's a pause. A long one.

"I know what you'd say. 'Don't you dare build that house without me.'" His lips twitch. "But I've got the blueprints memorized. Three bedrooms. One for us. One for guests. And one you swore would be the nursery, even before I was ready to talk about it."

He remembers that conversation. They'd been lying in bed on a Sunday morning, the kind of lazy morning that feels stolen from time itself. She'd been tracing patterns on his chest, her voice soft and hypothetical. "If we had kids—and I'm not saying we should right now—but if we did, would you want a boy or a girl?" He'd pulled her closer. "Healthy," he'd said. She'd poked him in the ribs. "That's a cop-out answer." He'd laughed. "Fine. A girl. So I can teach her to be as stubborn as her mother."

He swallows.

"I finally decided where the windows would go in the living room. Big ones. Facing west. So the light hits just right in the evenings. You always loved sunsets. Said they made everything look forgiven."

She had a thing about light. Not in a pretentious way, but in a noticing way. She'd stop whatever she was doing if the light was particularly beautiful—golden hour streaming through trees, or the way rain looked silver against streetlights. "Look," she'd say, grabbing his arm. "Look at that." And he'd look, not at the light, but at her face, at the way wonder made her seem younger. He wishes now he'd looked at the light more. Tried to see what she saw.

A bird startles from a nearby tree. He watches it disappear into the gray-blue sky.

"I kept the ring box," he says more quietly. "I know that's stupid. We weren't even engaged yet. Not officially, not that it stopped you from planning everything anyway. But I had it." His jaw tightens.

"You would've laughed at how nervous I was. I rehearsed it, you know. In the mirror. Like an idiot."

He'd practiced for weeks. Bought the ring two months earlier, hiding it in his sock drawer. He'd asked her father's permission over beers on the back porch, stumbling through a speech he'd prepared. Her father had clapped him on the shoulder. "I was wondering when you'd get around to it. She's been ready since the day she met you."

He rubs his thumb against his palm, as though the velvet box still rests there.

"I was going to ask you under that old string of patio lights at your parents' place. You remember? The ones that flickered no matter how many times your dad replaced the bulbs."

Her parents' backyard had been their place for big moments. First time meeting the family. Her graduation party. The night she'd told him she loved him, tipsy on cheap wine and summer heat. The lights had been there for all of it, casting everything in warm, unreliable gold.

He chuckles, but it's thin.

"I even talked to your mother. She pretended to be surprised. Terrible actress."

Her mother had cried, of course. Happy tears, the kind that come with hugs and promises to help with wedding planning. "She'll want something simple," her mother had said. "But elegant. That's my girl." Now those same hands tremble when she hugs him, and her eyes hold a different kind of tears.

The wind moves again, colder this time. Autumn is settling in properly now, the kind of weather she always loved. Sweater weather, she called it.

"I still think about the dog we were going to get. Golden retriever. You already had a name picked out. I told you we needed to meet him first before deciding. You said, 'No, he looks like a Murphy.' Like that made sense."

She'd shown him pictures of golden retriever puppies at least once a week. "Look at this one," she'd say, shoving her phone in his face. "Look at that face. That's a Murphy if I've ever seen one." He'd pointed out that all golden retriever puppies looked essentially the same. She'd gasped in mock offense. "How dare you. They're all individuals with unique personalities." "You haven't even met them," he'd countered. "I don't need to," she'd said confidently. "I can tell."

His voice cracks, just slightly.

"I pass by pet stores sometimes. Just to look."

He never goes in. Just slows down when he drives past, catching glimpses of the puppies in the window. Sometimes he imagines an alternate timeline where he walks in, where Murphy becomes real. But he can't. Not yet. It feels like a betrayal, somehow, to have the dog without her.

Silence settles heavier now.

"I kept the guest list draft," he says. "You had color-coded it. Who gets a plus-one. Who absolutely does not get a plus-one." A breath of laughter escapes him. "You were ruthless."

The spreadsheet is still on his laptop. He can't bring himself to delete it. 147 names, organized by relationship, dietary restrictions, likelihood of attendance. "Your cousin Brad is not bringing that girl he just met," she'd declared. "I'm not paying for a stranger's chicken dinner." He'd tried to argue for mercy. She'd been unmoved. "This is a sacred event. We have standards."

His gaze drifts downward.

"We never picked a first dance song. You kept changing your mind. Said it had to be something timeless. I said we'd probably just end up swaying awkwardly while everyone stared."

She'd made him listen to dozens of options. Ella Fitzgerald. Frank Sinatra. Etta James. Ed Sheeran, which he'd vetoed immediately. "Too obvious," he'd said. She'd thrown a pillow at him. But the truth was, he didn't care about the song. He just wanted the moment. Wanted to hold her in front of everyone they loved and know that this was real.

He wipes at his eye quickly, annoyed at himself.

"I would've spun you, though. Even if I tripped."

He's not a good dancer. Never has been. She'd tried to teach him a few times, in their living room with music playing from her phone. He'd stepped on her toes. She'd laughed. "You're hopeless," she'd said. "Just follow my lead." He'd pulled her close instead, swaying without rhythm. "This is all I've got," he'd admitted. She'd rested her head on his shoulder. "Then this is perfect."

The sky has shifted—afternoon slipping toward evening. The shadows stretch long across the grass. He should leave soon. He has work tomorrow. Bills to pay. A life to somehow continue living. But leaving feels like abandonment, even though he knows she's not really here.

"I still have the map from that road trip we planned," he says. "Remember? Start in Maine in the fall. Drive all the way down the coast. Eat too much seafood. Stay in those small bed-and-breakfasts you love."

She'd marked it all out on an actual paper map, refusing to use GPS for the planning stage. "It's more romantic this way," she'd insisted, drawing their route in red marker. They'd take two weeks. Maybe three. Stop wherever looked interesting. "We'll do it after the wedding," she'd said. "Our real honeymoon. I want this."

His voice grows softer.

"You wanted to see the ocean at sunrise in every state."

He'd teased her about the logistics. "You know that means waking up at like five AM every day, right?" She'd shrugged. "So? We'll go to bed early. It'll be worth it." And he'd believed her, because she had a way of making everything sound worth it. Making him want to be the kind of person who woke up for sunrises, who noticed beauty, who said yes to adventure.

He nods slowly, as though she's speaking back to him.

"I know. I know."

Sometimes he swears he can hear her voice. Not in a supernatural way, but in memory, so clear it might as well be real. Her laugh. The way she said his name when she was annoyed with him. The soft sound she made when she was falling asleep. He's terrified of forgetting these things. He's started writing them down—little details, moments, the shape of her voice.

A long pause.

"I planted the peonies."

The wind stills.

"In the backyard of the rental. They probably won't survive there. Not enough sun. But I planted them anyway. Pink ones. You said peonies meant a happy marriage."

She'd read it in some book about flower meanings. Victorian flower language, she'd called it. Roses for love. Forget-me-nots for remembrance. Peonies for a happy marriage and good fortune. "We're getting peonies everywhere," she'd declared. "Bouquet. Centerpieces. Maybe even the cake." He'd agreed to all of it, because how could he not?

His fingers press into his knees.

"I'm trying," he whispers.

Trying to what, exactly? Trying to live. Trying to honor her memory. Trying to figure out how to exist in a world that kept spinning when his stopped. But most days he feels like he's just going through motions, following a script for a play he never auditioned for.

The air feels thinner now.

"I still talk to you in the mornings. When I make coffee. I tell you what I've got planned for the day. Like you're in the shower and I can hear you humming."

She always hummed in the shower. Off-key, unselfconscious. He'd make coffee and listen to the water running, the muffled sound of her voice, and feel content in a way he'd never been able to articulate. It was the small things, he realizes now. Not the grand gestures, but the daily rhythm of sharing space with someone you loved.

He inhales, steadying himself.

"I don't know how to stop making plans," he admits. "Every time I think about the future, you're there. In it. In every version of it."

This is the hardest part. Not the grief itself, but the way it tangles with hope. The way he still catches himself thinking "I should tell Emily about this" before remembering. The way every plan, every dream, every imagined tomorrow still includes her by default, and then doesn't.

His hand finally reaches forward.

His fingers trace over cool stone. Marble. Gray with white veining. She would've hated it. "Too formal," she would've said. "Too cold." But her parents chose it, and he didn't have the heart to argue. Didn't have the heart for much of anything in those early days.

"I even picked out a name for our daughter," he says, barely audible now. "You'd hate it. But I think I could've convinced you."

Rose. He would've suggested Rose. Classic, simple, with her grandmother's name as a middle option. She would've wrinkled her nose. "Too old-fashioned," she would've protested. But he would've made his case—the way it sounded with their last name, the nickname possibilities, the strength of it. And eventually, she would've come around. "Fine," she would've said, pretending to be reluctant. "But only because you're annoyingly persistent."

The breeze brushes through the grass at his feet, bending it in one direction—toward him.

He smiles, broken but sincere.

"I guess I just wanted you to know… I didn't forget any of it. Not one thing."

His hand settles flat against the marble.

Below his palm, carved in gentle script:

Emily Harper Beloved Daughter Beloved Bride-to-Be 1996 – 2025

The dates feel wrong. Twenty-seven years. That's all she got. All they got. He does the math sometimes, obsessively. If they'd met a year earlier. If he'd proposed sooner. They could've had more time. But then he remembers what she would say to that kind of thinking. "We had what we had," she'd tell him. "And it was good."

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to the headstone.

"We were supposed to start next spring," he whispers.

The wedding was scheduled for May. The invitations were ordered. She'd found her dress—she'd made him swear not to ask about it, honoring the tradition even though they'd already broken a dozen others. They were going to write their own vows. Honeymoon in Maine, then down the coast. Come back to the rental while the house was being built. Start trying for kids within a year or two. Grow old together in the house by the creek, under the sycamore tree, with Murphy the golden retriever and peonies in the garden and sage green cabinets in the kitchen.

The sun dips behind the trees, and for a moment, in the fading light, the world looks almost forgiven.

He stays there, forehead against stone, until the cemetery lights flicker on. Until the groundskeeper's truck rumbles past on the access road. Until the cold seeps through his jacket and his knees ache from kneeling.

"Same time next week," he finally says, pulling back. "I'll bring you up to speed on the house. Maybe I'll have actual progress to report."

He stands slowly, joints protesting. Touches the marble one more time.

"I love you," he says. "Still. Always."

The words hang in the air, then dissipate like breath on a cold day.

He walks back to his car as the last light drains from the sky, carrying with him all the plans they made, all the futures they imagined, all the weight of a love that didn't get its ending. The peonies nod gently in the evening breeze, pink against gray stone, blooming out of season because he paid extra, because some things are worth the cost, because she deserves flowers even now.

Especially now.

The gravel crunches under his feet. The oak trees whisper overhead. And somewhere, in a version of the world he can't reach but can't stop imagining, she's humming in the shower while he makes coffee, and everything is exactly as it should be.