Page 52 of Ricardo

“That tracks.”

“I tore everything up.”

“Good.”

“Very mature response.”

“You or me?”

I laugh. “Both.”

“Well, I'm always mature,” he says indignantly. “And I think tearing up a wedding invitation for a wedding that's not happening is a very appropriate response.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds obvious.”

“It is obvious.”

I give him a look.

He lifts both hands. “Fine. It is obvious to me. I did not find the thing in my apartment this morning.”

I smile, but it fades quickly. “I think I kept it because some part of me wanted proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“That I got close enough to become that version of myself.” I look down at my water glass. “The woman on the invitation. The woman in the photograph. The one who smiled like she had agreed to all of it.”

“You didn't agree to that, Jules,” he says, suddenly serious. “You agreed to marry a man, not become an accessory.”

My throat tightens. “That’s what it felt like, though.”

“I know.”

I look at him.

He reaches for the bread basket, tears off a piece, then sets it on my plate without comment. “I’m not saying you should have seen it sooner. I’m saying he was very good at making it look normal, appropriate.”

I stare at the bread because looking at him is harder.

“He was,” I say. “Everyone was.”

Dante’s jaw tightens.

“I should have pushed harder,” he says.

“No.”

His eyes come back to mine.

I pick up the piece of bread, mostly to have something to do with my hands. “You tried. You called. You texted. You invited me places. I made excuses.”

“Because he made excuses easier than honesty.”

I breathe out slowly. “Yes.”

Dante sits with that for a second, then nods once. “I hated him.”

A laugh slips out of me, small and tired. “You met him once.”