“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.”
“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.”
