Ian and I got married yesterday.
Our wedding was everything we had hoped for and perfect in every way. Marisol, my best friend and maid of honor, cried through her toast. My cousins started a conga line. Ian stepped on my dress twice and apologized as if he’d committed a crime.
We stumbled into our suite at 2 a.m., laughing, exhausted, and still glittery. He shrugged out of his custom black tuxedo, tossed it over the armchair with the reverence of a man throwing away a napkin, and was asleep before I finished brushing my teeth.
My cousins started a conga line.
***
This morning, our suitcases sat by the door. We were set for Greece that afternoon for our honeymoon.
I’d woken up and quietly gotten out of bed to start organizing our bags. I was exhausted but incredibly happy.
Ian was still fast asleep, completely knocked out from the long night of dancing and celebrating.
I was exhausted but incredibly happy.
I padded over to the armchair to fold the tux into a garment bag so it could be dropped off at the dry cleaners before we headed to the airport. That’s it. That was the whole plan.
“Pockets,” I mumbled to myself because I’d once lost a rental car key at a wedding. I don’t repeat mistakes.
Outer breast pocket: nothing; trouser pockets: a mint and a crumpled drink ticket.
Then the inner breast pocket.
I don’t repeat mistakes.
I expected to find our handwritten vow books or maybe a hotel key card.
My fingers closed around something that wasn’t anything a groom should be carrying against his heart on his wedding night.
I pulled it out slowly.
