She hid them from Jim for a year. Without a word. Without a peep. Without a hint.

She found them when she tidied up the honeymoon suite, plucking their clothes off the floor while Jim hummed in the shower. She stuffed them into her makeup bag and smuggled them in secret across state lines.

Back in Scranton, she had them steamed. The dry cleaner stared at her. “You know these are damaged, right?” he asked, drawing her attention to the defects. Unsatisfied with her verbal acknowledgement, he made her attest to it in writing and sign a waiver.

She never knew that cleaners had waivers.

Now, she padded down the stairs in bare feet--she hadn’t put on her heels yet--and watched Jim wave to Cece and her mother from the foyer. She stood on the bottom step as he closed the door and turned to her.

“Hey,” he said, his mouth stretched into a slanted but wide smile. “Happy anniversary.”

She almost hid Jim’s gift behind her back, suddenly worried it was too simple--too easy--but he’d already seen it. His eyes darted from the box to her face, his brow furrowing.

“We’re doing gifts first? If I’d have known, I would have brought yours down--”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, rushing to interrupt him. She waved him over to her, and he joined her on the stairs, crouching down to sit with her. He waited, watching her.

Pam peered at the box, running her finger along its edge. “I know the first year is supposed to be paper, but--”

“Oh. Oh, god, no. Pam, believe me, it’s one hundred percent okay if you didn’t get me paper,” he said, covering her hand with his and squeezing, pressing his fingertips into her palm. “The last thing I want is paper.”

Her smile faltered and her heart beat with nervous flutters as she set the box on his knees. She searched his face as he tore off the wrapping, watching his eye lines soften and his mouth slowly fall open. His bottom lip moved, but he didn’t speak.

A warm wave broke over Pam’s chest and coursed up her throat as she glanced into the shadow box where she’d carefully arranged her veil, its rip prominently displayed, and Jim’s tie, cut on the bias to expose its white interior fabric. She followed the path of his fingertips as he traced the jagged outline of her veil on the glass.

In the minute that passed, she heard nothing but the quiet, rhythmic tick of Jim’s wristwatch.

He finally looked at her, his expression a replica of the one he’d worn a year before. She’d almost missed it then, when he’d stroked her cheek with his thumb, scanned her whole face with tender eyes, and--she was sure--took his own mental picture even as she’d rambled.

Jim shifted, tapping the corners of the box. “So, uh--” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “What do you say we order in tonight? I know you wanted to go out--”

“No--yes--I did, but--”

“I just thought we could be--”

“Yes,” she said, her mouth curving into a smile. She brightened at the thought of staying in for the evening--Cece with her mother until the morning, the two of them free to lounge in pajamas, battle for the last spoonful of ice cream, and tumble into bed before eight o’clock. Relaxation without guilt, without distraction, and, later, without clothes. “Yes, let’s order in.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “We haven’t been on a date in--I can’t remember when. A while. So, if you don’t want to--”

She nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure,” she said, leaving her real want unspoken: to take his hand, lead him to bed, and, still in her dress, make love to him until he lay breathless and exhausted beneath her. “Absolutely.”

He slid his gift to the far end of the step and turned to wrap his arms around her. “Thank god,” he whispered, pressing his face into the curve of her neck.

As his breath breezed over her skin, she folded her arms loosely around his shoulders. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, barring the words that pooled on her tongue, words reserved for later. Thank you for falling in love with me. Thank you for not giving up. Thank you for supporting me. Thank you for marrying me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Jim pulled back, resting his hand on her knee. His eyebrows shot up, and he snorted a laugh when her stomach rumbled loudly.

“Well,” she said through a bashful smile. “Clearly, someone has to call and order.” Tilting her head and raising her eyebrows, she waited a beat. Then: “Not it!”

“Not it!”

“Oh, too slow!” She beamed at him, patting his thigh.

He groaned and flopped backwards against the stairs. “Damn it,” he said, smiling at the ceiling.

“I’ll be right back with your phone, sweetie,” she said, her words sugar-coated-smug.

At the top of the stairs, she paused for a moment and watched Jim as he stood and held the box up to the wall, testing one placement, then another. She quietly raised her hands, framed him with her finger-box viewfinder, and mentally captured the warmth of his smile.