The mention of money in front of his parents was the final push. “Fine,” I whispered, the risotto turning to ash in my mouth. “I accept.”

Relief washed over him. He poured more wine and talked about European vacations, but the man I’d shared a bed with for seven years suddenly felt like a stranger.

Why the desperate rush? Why couldn’t he hold my eyes?

Later, loading the dishwasher, I caught sight of him on the balcony, hunched in the corner, shielding his phone from the wind and whispering with his hand cupped over his mouth.

When he noticed my shadow, he snapped the phone shut and put on a blinding smile.

The next morning, the departure was a performance. Everett was uncharacteristically emotional over his tailored suit and leather luggage; Shirley clung to his lapels, weeping and warning him about foreign germs.