Cove's palms were sweaty. His palms always seemed to be sweaty lately. You sat across from him at your kitchen table, chattering excitedly about the flowers your big sister Elizabeth picked out for the wedding.

"Aren't they perfect?" you asked, showing him the picture on your phone. Orchids, tropical lilies, and hibiscus, your favorites. Of course Liz remembered your favorites.

Cove stuttered, fumbling with his pen, "Y-yeah. They're gorgeous." He was supposed to be making the guest list. But he'd barely gotten past four people. You tilted your head and sat the phone down. Cove could tell by the slight furrow of your brow that he'd been caught.

"What's wrong?"

Cove's heart raced and he stared at the table. His parents' names on the guest list stared back at him. How could he explain it? How could he look at the woman who'd been his best friend since he was eight, the woman who was now his fiance? How could he tell her what was really eating him alive?

Every time Cove looked at that engagement ring on your finger, planned another step of the wedding, or someone asked about kids, Cove thought of his parents. He remembered lonely nights hearing them shouting downstairs. Long car rides back to his mom's house once every few months. Years upon years of anger and resentment. And Cove was terrified that could become him and you one day.