“When I was younger,” Henry says, “I had this very elaborate idea of taking somebody I loved here and standing inside the chapel, that he’d love it as much as I did, and we’d slow dance right in front of the Blessed Mother. Just a … daft pubescent fantasy.” Henry hesitates, before finally sliding his phone out of his pocket. He presses a few buttons and extends a hand to Alex, and, quietly, “Your Song” starts to play from the tiny speaker. Alex exhales a laugh. “Aren’t you gonna ask if I know how to waltz?” “No waltzing,” Henry says. “Never cared for it.” Alex takes his hand, and Henry turns
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