The emergency at the firm — I had made Otis soup that night and sat by his bed and texted Kingston hope work eases up, we miss you, and he had been in a hotel with her, and had texted back a tired little heart.

The work weekend before our anniversary.

The late nights I had defended to my own mother, who had asked, gently, whether everything was all right.

I had spent two years being not only betrayed but made a fool of, an unwitting collaborator in my own deception, and here it was, printed and dated and impossible to un-see, spilling across a wedding table under two hundred pairs of eyes.

And the strangest thing was what I did not feel.

I did not feel newly wounded.