I couldn’t ignore it.
I wasn’t going to marry her.
And I wasn’t going to warn her.
***
The morning after I read those messages, I made coffee as if nothing had changed. Claire kissed the back of my neck and asked if I’d picked a suit for the party.
“Charcoal or navy?” I asked.
“Charcoal. It photographs better.”
I wasn’t going to warn her.
“Photos. Right.”
My fiancée didn’t catch the edge. I was learning she rarely did, as long as I kept smiling.
***
Two weeks. That’s what I had, and I used every hour of it.
I started with small questions, the kind a doting fiancé might ask over dinner.
What did she picture our life looking like a year from now? Two years? Five?
“Honestly?” Claire swirled her wine. “I’d love a fresh start after the wedding. Just us, settling into the rhythm.”
“Just us?”
My fiancée didn’t catch the edge.
