“Then she said I’d spent our whole relationship convincing you that you were good enough for me and asked whether I wanted to spend my marriage doing the same thing.”
I stared at him.
“What did you say?”
“That she’d gotten it backward.”
He looked directly at me.
“I told her that being with you had made me wonder whether I was good enough for you.”
My eyes burned.
“Luke.”
“It’s true.”
He pointed toward the letter.
“That’s why I wrote it. I realized there was still something about us you didn’t know, and I didn’t want to marry you with a secret between us.”
“Then why didn’t you give it to me?”
His shoulders dropped.
“I planned to.”
On the morning of our wedding, he had apparently seen me briefly before the ceremony.
I had been overwhelmed, nervous, and still grieving the fact that my sister was not there.
Luke had the letter with him, but he imagined handing me several pages beginning with a confession that our first meeting had not been accidental.
“I lost my nerve,” he admitted. “I told myself I’d explain after the wedding.”
“And then?”
“Then we got married. We traveled. We came home. Life happened.”
He looked embarrassed.
“At some point, the letter got packed away with everything else.”
I shook my head.
“You idiot.”
