I hadn’t been in his home in more than a decade. It was now cluttered with things from the past 20 years, a stretch of his life I knew little about. And mixed in with those unfamiliar things were some of our old things: paintings I remember us buying together, a Mexican pitcher we bought at an antique fair. I loved that pitcher and had forgotten all about it.

I saw leather-bound screenplays we had written together sitting on a bookshelf, looking just like the ones sitting on a bookshelf in my house. I walked past his daughter’s room and saw a lot of our daughter’s old furniture. I turned away, heading for the door and asked, “Should we get going?”

As we pulled out of his driveway, it felt weirdly like a first date. Here we were, sitting next to each other in this confined space, and it was awkward. I needed to say something just to get my bearings, so I started talking about our children and what they were up to. But soon the conversation became easier, more relaxed, and he laughed at things I said, as he always had, and I was feeling more comfortable and didn’t put the wall up between us. I just let us be.

Time flew. The three-hour drive felt like 20 minutes. We checked into our hotel, very rom-com style, the two of us standing side-by-side, announcing our names. I was almost expecting the desk clerk to say unfortunately there was a mistake in the bookings and Charles and I would have to share a room. But no — I was booked in one wing of the hotel and he was in the other.

We took a stroll through town, visited a local museum and chatted nonstop. We had a 20-year backlog of things to talk about. Our walk around charming Solvang was like a movie montage where you don’t hear the dialogue but know those two people are getting along.

Then we went back to our rooms to get ready for the wedding. We met in the lobby and headed out. At the wedding, we sat at the table with all of the bride’s friends’ parents, couples we have known forever, all of whom have miraculously stayed together.