Chapter 5: Studio B

The morning show's green room had a fruit plate, a mirror with bulbs around it, and a producer who talked in bullet points.

"Keep it light," she said, clipping a microphone to my collar. "Smile. People love a bride with a sense of humor."

"Is the host going to laugh?"

"Probably a little. It's morning TV."

Cal stood by the door in his one good flannel shirt.

He had driven me in his truck without turning on the radio, and he hadn't asked what I planned to say.

I looked at him and knew him by the hum he was suppressing.

"If I lose it," I said, "say my name."

"June," he said, so softly the producer didn't hear.

"That's it?"

"That's the whole plan. I'm bad at plans."

The host was a man with silver hair and a warm radio voice.

I knew him because the producer introduced him, and because he wore a heavy cologne.

"June Almgren," he said, as the red light came on.

"A bride whose wedding went viral for all the wrong reasons. Let's laugh about it."

He smiled. "Tell us, how does a woman not know her own groom?"

He smiled at the camera and waited.

"Prosopagnosia," I said. "It's face blindness. About one in fifty people have it."

"Fascinating."

"I can't recognize faces. Not my mother's, not my own in a group photo. I know people by their voice, their walk, their hands."

"But a fiancé," the host said, still smiling. "Surely you know your fiancé."

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