Let me tell you who my maid of honor was. Her name is Cecile. We met in eighth grade in a middle school in Ann Arbor. She was the first friend I made when my family moved there from Chicago, and she had been the first person I called about every significant thing that happened to me for the following fourteen years. When I met August, she was the first person I told. When August proposed, she was the first person I called from the airport in Mexico. When I picked out my dress, she was with me. When I started planning the seating chart, she was with me. When I had my bachelorette party in Nashville seven months before the wedding, Cecile was the maid of honor who organized the whole thing, and she did a beautiful job. I had, without hesitation, chosen her to be the most important person in my wedding that was not August or my parents. And she had, over those same fourteen years, been the one person I told absolutely everything to. Including — nine months before my wedding, on her kitchen floor at 1 AM, in a moment that was specifically contextualized as "this never leaves this room" — the thing she would later reveal into a microphone.