Chapter 6: Everything He Admitted and Everything He Didn't
We went back to the suite.
Ian set both passports on the table.
He didn't sit down right away.
He stood near the window with his arms crossed, looking at the floor, and I waited.
"How much did she tell you?" he finally asked.
"Enough."
"That's not an answer."
"Ian." I sat down.
"I have photos.
I have a screenshot of your messages.
I know about March third.
I know about Edinburgh." I paused.
"I know you were still with her four months after you proposed to me."
He didn't deny it.
That, more than anything, told me where we were.
He sat down across from me.
He put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands for a moment, then looked up.
"It wasn't what I wanted," he said.
"I want you to know that."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I was trying to end it.
It took longer than it should have.
I handled it badly.
But I was never — I was never in love with her.
Not the way I'm in love with you."
"You told her you'd figure it out by the end of the year.
That was October.
You married me in June."
"I know."
"So what did you figure out?"
He was quiet.
"Did you end it before the wedding?" I asked.
A pause that lasted one second too long.
"Yes."
"When?"
"February."
"The birthday cake photo is from March."
His jaw tightened.
"That was — that was the last time.
I went to tell her in person.
She deserved that much."
"You baked her a birthday cake to break up with her."
"I didn't bake it.
It was already there.
It was her birthday.
I couldn't just—" He stopped.
Pressed his fingers to his mouth.
"It sounds worse than it was."
"It sounds exactly like what it was," I said.
He looked at me.
His eyes were red at the edges.
"I love you.
I have loved you since the night I met you.
Everything I felt at that altar yesterday — that was real.
None of that was performance."
"I believe you," I said.
He looked momentarily relieved.
"And it doesn't change anything," I said.
The relief left his face.
"You lied to me for over a year," I said.
"Not once.
Not in a moment of weakness.
Consistently.
Deliberately.
While I was planning our wedding.
While I was telling my family and my friends that you were the most honest person I had ever known." My voice was steady but my hands were not.
I pressed them flat on the table.
"You let me build our entire relationship on a version of you that wasn't true."
"I am that person," he said.
"I made a mistake.
A serious one.
But I am still that person."
"How would I know?" I asked.
"How would I ever know now?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
We sat in silence for a long moment.
Outside the window, the city was fully awake.
Traffic.
Voices.
The ordinary noise of a Saturday morning.
"What do you want to do?" he asked quietly.
"I don't know yet."
"Do you want me to leave?"
I looked at the room.
Our bags.
Our garment bags.
The breakfast we hadn't finished.
The honeymoon itinerary still sitting on top of my carry-on.
"I want you to call Dana," I said.
He blinked.
"What?"
"I want you to call her.
Right now.
In front of me.
And I want you to tell her — clearly, with no room for interpretation — that it is over.
That you will not contact her again.
And I want to hear you do it."
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he picked up his phone.
He found the number.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
"And after?" he asked.
"After," I said, "we talk about whether there's anything left to save."
He pressed call.
It rang twice.
Then a voice answered — faint, cautious.
Ian looked at me once.
Then he looked away.
"Dana," he said.
"It's me.
I need you to listen."
I watched his face while he spoke.
I watched for the thing that would tell me whether I was looking at the man I married or a stranger wearing his face.
By the time the call ended, I still wasn't sure.
May you like
But I had heard something in his voice when he said her name — a softness that was there and then gone in an instant, so brief I almost missed it.
Almost.
