Meeting someone alone at a bar on Valentine's Day is a good indicator of someone's status. You know they're either single or a bad date. Alex had two weeks left in Scotland. Meeting anyone, bad date or single, was a terrible, terrible idea. But beneath Edinburgh's streets, in a speakeasy bar where smoke froths out of goblets and musty books topple off rickety bookshelves, Alex and Chris ended up at the same crowded table, separated by a slew of other American tourists. They didn't talk all night. There was no reason they should have connected. But sometimes, there are tugs toward people and places that can't be described. Like little golden threads connect us to the world, and though we can't see them, they're ever so surely there, guiding us. At the end of the night, Chris went out of his way to pay for Alex's cab ride home. Two days later, they were dating despite Alex's impending flight back to Wisconsin. Time was measured in spurts of rain and winding drives along coasts and mountains. Days before her flight, Alex was curled on the creaky floor of her apartment, clutching her phone and staring at her bank balance. She could spend a lot of money she didn't have to change her flight and return home a month later than planned. Or leave. And likely not see Chris again. Like a flickering TV, caught between two channels, her mind jostled between logic and the flight of fancy she'd allowed to take hold. The flight of fancy won. Seconds after clicking "buy," she felt insane. Chris would like to take this point to remind Alex that he did, indeed, believe she was insane. Alex, in turn, would like to remind Chris he professed his love for her on their third date. She, too, thought him mad. Both recognizing their shared insanity and abandon of reason, it somehow worked. And they're grateful that touch of madness gave them hope. It let them love, and led them here, and no place could be better.

If given voice, the best storytellers in the world would be ancient halls and battered stones, built to give shelter and life. The abbey where Chris proposed is a thousand years old. It's seen people weep and sleep and love. It's witnessed storms and wars and peace and wedding after wedding, life after life, death after death. There's a magic in all this story-keeping. And for one day, that magic, and the story, was ours. *** "Wear something nice. I mean, you always look nice, but something nicer than nice. And, uhh, you'll want more than your rain boots. Do you have nice shoes? I think you have nice shoes." Turning around to scowl while curling one's hair is a hazardous activity. Still, Alex managed to swivel mid-curl as Chris rummaged through her shoe collection. "It's pouring rain outside. Why would I want more than my rain boots?" Chris gave a strained smile. "Because we'll want to impress the people at the wedding venue. They should know we're serious." Despite not actually being engaged, they were already looking at wedding venues, having informally decided to get married months ago. This seemed like an odd explanation - and likely should have been Alex's first clue that something was amiss - but it was not. She was oblivious. (Chris, of course, didn't care about Alex's outfit, but knew photos were imminent, and that his to-be-fiancé would grumble over her muddy rain boots). An hour later, dressed in something nice with a change of shoes, Alex and Chris dashed into an ancient abbey in a preserved medieval town hugging the Firth of Forth. Chris guided her to an alcove, where the rest blurs into smiles and tears and flower petals. Their entire families were gathered; Alex's family had secretly flown out from Wisconsin, and Chris' siblings traveled from Australia and Ireland. There was the ring. Chris on his knee. Kind words. Funny words. Chris knew the answer, like Alex knew the question, but it meant suns and moons to hear the other say it.