“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were absolutely going to.”
I laughed, and it came out forced.
“Okay, I was going to.”
“Ask him,” Marisol advised. “Calmly. Coffee first. Do not accuse. Watch his face. Ian is a terrible liar. You know this. He couldn’t even keep the honeymoon destination a secret for two weeks.”
“Which is why this is so weird. He can’t keep secrets. And yet here we are.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“It means either it’s something big and awful, or it’s something big and not awful. Both are possible.”
I stared at the key. It was too small for a door. Too specifically shaped for a lock I couldn’t picture. A jewelry box, maybe.
“Marisol, what if I just married a man I don’t actually know?”
“You dated him for four years. You know him.”
“People hide things for years all the time.”
“You know him.”
“Not Ian. Sharon, come on. Not Ian.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to walk back into that suite, slide under the covers, and pretend the tuxedo was still empty.
But I couldn’t.
“I can’t wait until Greece to ask,” I said. “I can’t sit on a plane for 10 hours with this in my carry-on.”
“Then don’t. But ask. Don’t declare.”
“Ask. Don’t declare. Got it.”
I wanted to believe her.
“And Sharon?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever it is, you call me right after. I don’t care if you’re crying or laughing. I need to know.”
I nodded at the empty stairwell, which was pointless because she couldn’t see me.
“I promise,” I managed.
