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
“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.”
