She pointed toward a seat beside the arch.

“What did he want?”

“Nothing.”

Margaret smiled.

“He said he was nervous.”

I almost laughed.

“A man who worked around  weddings for twenty-eight years was nervous about getting married?”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

She rested her hand on the binder.

“He stared at that arch and told me, ‘Tomorrow, I’m standing on the other side of the desk.’”

Suddenly, I remembered Larry’s shaking hands on our wedding day.

I had blamed the illness.

Maybe I had been watching something else entirely.

Margaret opened the binder.

“Look.”

Inside was an old marriage record.

Two names I didn’t recognize appeared at the top.

Near the bottom was a familiar signature.

Larry.

Next to his name was one word.

Witness.

Margaret turned the page.

Another couple.

Larry.

Witness.

Another page.

Different couple.

Different year.

Same signature.

Again.

Larry.

Witness.

I looked at Margaret.

“What is this?”

“Sometimes couples came in without anyone with them,” she explained. “Larry would leave his desk and sign as their witness.”

She turned another page.

“He hated the idea of someone getting married with nobody standing beside them.”

I ran my finger over one of his old signatures.

It was strange seeing Larry’s handwriting from decades before I knew him.

The same narrow L.

The same crooked y.

“How many times did he do this?”

Margaret shrugged.

“Hundreds, probably.”

She smiled.

“He used to joke that he had attended more weddings than anyone in the courthouse but never had an anniversary to remember.”

A laugh escaped me.

Then another question occurred to me.

“Was Larry ever  married before?”

Margaret slowly closed the binder.

She didn’t answer.

“Margaret?”

“Once.”

My stomach tightened.

“To whom?”

She looked directly at me.

“You.”

I sat down.

For twenty-eight years, Larry had watched strangers walk into that building as separate people and walk out legally connected.

Whenever someone had no friend or  family member beside them, Larry stepped forward.

His name appeared again and again in those records.

But always beside the same word.

Witness.

Never husband.

Never spouse.

Not until me.

Margaret opened another drawer.

“There’s something else.”

She pulled out a clear plastic sleeve.

“Larry asked me to keep this after your marriage was recorded, in case you ever came looking for me.”

Inside was a copy of our marriage certificate.

My name was there.

So was Larry’s.

And beside his name was the word:

SPOUSE.

I remembered how carefully he had folded his copy after our ceremony.

How he had asked the clerk twice where he needed to sign.

I had teased him about it.

“You’re acting like this is an actual wedding.”

For a moment, Larry had gone quiet.

Then he smiled.

“First marriage. Let me be nervous.”

I laughed then.

Sitting in that courthouse, I couldn’t.

Margaret took the chair beside me.

“Did Larry tell you why he wanted to marry you?”

“He gave me a reason.”

I explained the letter.

The story about burial arrangements.

His confession that he had made the situation sound more desperate because he knew I would help if there was a problem to solve.

Margaret listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she didn’t defend him.

“That wasn’t fair to you.”

I looked at her.

“He knew you would say yes to a problem,” she continued. “Larry was always much better at asking someone for practical help than asking someone to choose him.”

I looked down at his signature.

“What was I actually saying yes to?”

Margaret glanced at our marriage certificate.

“That isn’t my story to tell.”

For a second, I wanted to demand an answer.

Then I remembered that the rest of Larry’s letter was still inside my purse.

He had specifically told me to visit the courthouse first.

He wanted me to see those records.

The hundreds of witness signatures.

Our marriage certificate.

The word spouse.

I left the courthouse and took the subway home.

But when the train reached Larry’s old station, I stepped off.

The woman at the  coffee kiosk recognized me immediately.

“Two?”

For a second, I nearly said no.

Then I looked toward Larry’s empty place beside the station entrance.

“Yeah.”

She handed me my coffee with cream.

And Larry’s black coffee.

I carried both cups outside and sat in his usual spot.

In two years, I had never stayed there long enough to finish an entire cup.

I placed Larry’s coffee beside me.

Then I unfolded the next page of his letter.

At the top, he had written:

“I didn’t need a wife to make my life matter, Sarah.”

Underneath that was another sentence.

“But I wanted to know, just once, what it felt like to have somebody choose that word with me.”

I stopped reading.

Steam rose from the black coffee beside me into the cold air.

Then I continued.

“I knew that if I had told you the truth, you might still have said yes.”

My eyes filled with tears.

I whispered, “Then why didn’t you?”

Larry’s answer was written directly beneath it.

“Because then I would have had to listen while you decided whether loneliness was a good enough reason.”

Suddenly, two years of mornings with Larry looked different.

The next line read:

“I made it easier for you by turning loneliness into paperwork. I knew you would understand paperwork. You had the right to know the truth. I’m sorry.”

I stared at his words.

“You should have told me.”

A subway train rumbled beneath the pavement.

The letter continued.

“You were always trying to fix things for me. I liked that about you, even when you drove me crazy.”

Despite myself, I smiled.

During our three weeks of  marriage, I had bought Larry warm socks, toiletries, a phone charger, and a new blanket.

Probably enough supplies to last six months.

Every hospice visit went exactly the same way.

I would enter carrying something.

Larry would say, “Sit down, Sarah.”

And I would answer, “In a minute.”

There was always another nurse to find.

Another form to complete.

Another problem to solve.

Then I reached the next sentence.

“I didn’t need better socks nearly as much as you thought I did.”

I laughed through my tears.

“You’re welcome, Larry.”

Then I read the line beneath it.

“I needed you to sit down.”

I looked at the empty place beside me.

Our final Tuesday together came rushing back.

I had brought his usual black coffee.

“You staying?” he asked.

“Five minutes.”

“Big spender.”

I ended up staying twelve.

Maybe those twelve minutes had been worth more to him than anything I had brought through the hospice doors.

The final paragraph began:

“Don’t turn me into another person you failed to save.”

My fingers stopped moving.

Because since Larry’s  funeral, that was exactly what I had been doing.