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Day four left, Dante brought the prints home.

In one hand, his phone, FaceTiming Isobel. In the other, a framed photo, which he turned to show me. His eyes were soft.

"Isobel. They finally delivered the prints. The photographer said we came out beautifully."

I had just stepped out of the kitchen for water.

Dante's face tightened, caught somewhere between awkward and defensive. He looked at me like he wanted to say something.

I glanced at the photo. Forced a faint smile. "You two look nice."

I'd paid a fortune for that photographer. I'd wanted to capture the happiest moment of my life with Dante.

In my head, I'd pictured it: him in a clean-cut suit, jaw sharp, looking every inch the man I'd loved with my whole chest for twenty years. The pictures filled with the kind of tenderness only people in love can fake convincingly.

Only one thing was different. The bride wasn't me.

Dante froze.

It hit him, suddenly, that I hadn't initiated a single conversation with him in weeks. That during his whole week away with Isobel, I hadn't sent one text. Not even hi.

That was new. That unsettled him.

On his phone, Isobel was still chattering away. But Dante's attention had locked onto me. Unease climbed up his spine, and he tried to push it down.