I don’t believe in signs anymore. Not after James slipped that velvet box into my hand right here on this very bench, two years ago to the day—only to take it all back six months later with the same quiet smile and a sentence that began with “I think we rushed into this.” Every Sunday since, I’ve come back to this bench outside Sun & Steam Café in Asheville, North Carolina. Same bench. Same order. Same me—except I don’t cry anymore. That stopped around month eight, maybe nine. These days I just