The way he had asked for Rosie before stepping inside the house.
“The agreement gave me a way to protect her legally,” he continued. “So I signed it, redirected every payment to her, and married the woman I wanted to marry anyway.”
My head spun.
One truth remained even harder to accept.
“My parents arranged this.”
Ben nodded.
“And Rosie knew?”
“I told her after our first anniversary.”
“You waited a year?”
“I was ashamed. I thought she would believe the marriage had been false.”
“What did she say?”
Ben smiled through his tears.
“She cried. Then she became angry. Then she told me I was an idiot.”
Despite everything, a broken laugh escaped me.
“She said she had known I loved her because no one pretends to enjoy the same movie thirty-seven times.”
That sounded like Rosie.
“Why didn’t either of you tell me?”
“She asked me not to.”
“Why?”
“She said you would go to war with your parents. She thought the family would be destroyed.”
“They were planning to abandon her.”
“She still loved them.”
Of course she did.
Rosie had always found it easier to forgive than the rest of us.
“I kept that promise,” Ben said. “Until tonight, when she asked me to make a new one.”
I thought of the flowers he brought Rosie every Tuesday for no reason.
The way he knew every line of her favorite film.
The repaired shelves, careful routines, and breakfast calls.
Their marriage had never been an act.
The contract was ugly.
Their love was not.
“I hated you for about two minutes,” I whispered.
“That’s fair.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Fast footsteps echoed down the corridor.
