“You dated him for four years. You know him.”
“People hide things for years all the time.”
“You know him.”
“Not Ian. Sharon, come on. Not Ian.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to walk back into that suite, slide under the covers, and pretend the tuxedo was still empty.
But I couldn’t.
“I can’t wait until Greece to ask,” I said. “I can’t sit on a plane for 10 hours with this in my carry-on.”
“Then don’t. But ask. Don’t declare.”
“Ask. Don’t declare. Got it.”
I wanted to believe her.
“And Sharon?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever it is, you call me right after. I don’t care if you’re crying or laughing. I need to know.”
I nodded at the empty stairwell, which was pointless because she couldn’t see me.
“I promise,” I managed.
I hung up and sat there for a long moment, the key warm in one hand, the note cold in the other, my wedding ring catching the ugly fluorescent light.
Then I got up and walked back to face my husband.
“I need to know.”
***
I slipped back into the suite, easing the door shut with both hands as if it were made of glass. Ian was already sitting up, his hair a disaster, blinking at me with that lopsided smile that had made me say yes to the second date.
“There you are,” my husband said, stretching. “I woke up, and the bed was cold. Where’d you go?”
“Ice machine,” I lied, which was maybe the first lie I’d ever told him.
Ian was already sitting up.
He raised an eyebrow. “You went to the ice machine in a robe with no ice bucket?”
“I forgot the bucket.”
“Uh-huh.”
I laughed, and it came out too high. My hand was in my pocket, closed tightly around the key and the note.
Room service I’d ordered knocked. I was grateful for the interruption in the way you’re grateful for a fire alarm during a bad first date.
“I forgot the bucket.”
***
We sat across from each other with coffee, and I tried to breathe like a person who wasn’t quietly unraveling. Ian buttered a croissant as if nothing was wrong.
“So,” I said, casual as a shrug, “did you empty the tux pockets? It has to go to the cleaner before we leave.”
“Yeah, last night. All good.”
“You sure?”
He looked up. “Sharon. I checked. Vow book, hotel key, done.”
“Did you empty the tux pockets?”
My chest tightened painfully. “Weird, because I found something in there this morning.”
My husband stopped chewing.
“From a place called Bellamy & Sons,” I said, watching his face.
The change was small, but I saw it. First a blink, then the tiniest tightening around his mouth. Not guilt exactly. Guarded.
I set the key and the note on the table between the coffee cups.
My husband stopped chewing.
Ian became very still. He didn’t reach for it. He just looked at it, then at me, and I watched him do that thing he does when he’s choosing his words like they might cost money.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. Sharon, I need you to trust me for six more hours, just until we get to the airport. Please.”
“Six hours?”
“Yeah.”
“Ian, we’ve been married for a few hours.”
“I know.”
Ian became very still.
“We share phone passwords. We share the Netflix account, which is arguably more intimate. And you want me to sit on this for six hours?”
“Yes, please, babe.”
I stared at him. He looked back at me, steady, and the worst part was that he didn’t look like a man who’d been caught. He looked like a man who was hurt that I’d asked.
I stared at him.
“Who’s R?” I said.
“Sharon.”
“Who is she?”
“I’m not cheating on you.” His voice cracked a little on the word “cheating,” as if the idea itself offended him. “I swear on my mom. I swear on us. But if I tell you right now, I ruin something I’ve been working on for a year.”
