She said it like a joke back then, of course. Everything with Robin Buckley always sounded like a joke at first—fast, half-laughing, deliberately careless, like she was afraid sincerity might trip her up if she ran too slow.

“Okay, hear me out,” Robin had said, eyes bright, hands moving too much as usual. “If we’re both still tragically single at thirty, we just… get married. For tax reasons. And moral support. And so our parents finally stop asking questions.”

You’d laughed. Of course you had. It fit perfectly into the category of things best friends say at 2 a.m. that will never matter. Hawkins felt endless back then. Thirty felt imaginary.

Time, unfortunately, disagreed.

Years passed. Hawkins burned, healed, cracked again. You grew up. You left. You came back. Robin left too—Smith College, crowded dorms, loud opinions, new versions of herself she tried on like jackets. Through all of it, you stayed. Letters first, then calls, then long silences that never meant abandonment, only life.

And then suddenly… you were thirty.

No dramatic realization. No big moment. Just paperwork, signatures, a courthouse that smelled faintly of dust and old coffee. A joke fulfilled out of stubborn loyalty and muscle memory. Best friends keeping a promise.

Except it that... Living together felt easy in a way that scared you. Too natural. The way she learned what were your pet peeves, the same way she’d once memorized Russian syllables. The way she waited for you to sleep before she did. The way her guard—always so carefully constructed—lowered when it was just you in the room.

And slowly along the way... The joke became real.