“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.”
“A year.”
“Yes, a year.”
“Who is she?”
“Wait, on our wedding morning, you’re telling me you’ve had a secret for a year?”
“Only one secret,” my husband said. “One. And it isn’t what you think.”
“You don’t know what I think.”
“I have a pretty good guess.” He almost smiled, then didn’t because he knew this was serious. “Please. Six hours.”
I stood up so fast that the coffee sloshed. “No. That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work.”
