The Trap
I married my best friend.
Not in the soft, sentimental way people say it in wedding toasts — I mean it happened exactly like that, in order, with no detours. Matthew Reyes and I grew up two driveways apart on Larkspur Lane. Our mothers pushed us in matching strollers before either of us could walk. By kindergarten, we had a system: he carried the good crayons, I carried the snacks, and neither of us shared with anyone else.
He was the boy who returned my library books when I forgot. I was the girl who saved him a seat at lunch even when the table filled up fast. When Danny Ferris made fun of my crooked front teeth in sixth grade, Matthew didn’t say a word — he just stood behind my chair for the rest of the week like a small, silent bodyguard, until Danny got bored and moved on.
