My fiancé, Grant Mercer, was thirty, sharply dressed, polished in the way men become when they know which fork to use and how to say the right thing two seconds before anyone else in the room gets there. He was a junior partner-track attorney at a mid-sized firm in Indianapolis. My mother adored him because he came from “a good family.” My father adored him because he shook hands like a man trying to close a deal with your bones. He sent my mother flowers on Mother’s Day, laughed at my father’s bad golf stories, and once spent an entire Sunday helping my parents replace a deck rail while wearing a quarter-zip sweater and loafers like some kind of suburban prince.
I had been with him for three years.
We were four months from the wedding.
The invitations had gone out.
The venue deposit was paid.
