Then, last spring, on a random Tuesday, Aaron got down on one knee in our kitchen.
There were no candles or big speeches. Just him, looking up at me with wet eyes.
« I’m sorry it took so long, » he whispered. « Marry me. »
I sobbed into his shoulder until my ribs hurt. I thought I’d hit the jackpot and that every excuse, delay, and « not yet » had been the price of something real.
« I’m sorry it took so long. »
***
We got married that fall in a tiny ceremony.
Megan was my maid of honor. Diane sat in the front row and dabbed her eyes like an actress.
Our first anniversary was last Friday.
I want you to remember that date because the night I thought was the happiest of my life became the night every story I’d ever told myself fell apart.
I want you to remember that date.
***
Aaron had been planning it for weeks, or so he said. Lit candles sat on the table; my favorite pasta simmered on the stove, and a bottle of red wine my husband claimed he’d been saving since the wedding waited nearby.
He kissed my forehead in the doorway when I arrived home from work.
« Get refreshed. I want tonight to be perfect. »
I floated through the hallway of our little apartment, smiling and in a haze of disbelief that this was actually my life.
Aaron had been planning it for weeks.
When I returned, all dressed up but still barefoot, Aaron glanced at his watch and stood up.
« I’m gonna change into a suit to match your stunning look, » he said. « You pour the wine. I want to do this properly. »
I laughed because he was being ridiculous.
Before pouring the wine, I decided to surprise him and sneak up to wrap my arms around his waist while he buttoned his shirt.
Then I heard his voice through the cracked bedroom door.
It wasn’t the voice he used with me. It was low and careful.
« I want to do this properly. »
« Yeah, man. I’ve been pulling the wool over her eyes since school. She has no idea. Tonight I’ll finally do what I planned, » I heard Aaron say.
My knees buckled against the wall.
I pressed a hand over my mouth so hard I tasted blood from my own lip.
Fifteen years rushed through my head all at once.
The locked drawer, the secret phone calls, the name « Vanessa » flashing on his screen at 11 p.m. two summers ago, the way he’d looked me dead in the eye and said putting the house in his name alone was « just for tax reasons, » and the way he insisted, even after the wedding, that we keep separate bank accounts.
Every little thing I’d swallowed down because I loved him too much to ask twice.
« Tonight I’ll finally do what I planned. »
I could’ve burst into that bedroom screaming or thrown the wine glass at the wall and demanded answers.
But something inside me went very, very still.
I wanted to know who Aaron was talking to, what he’d planned, and why he’d pretended to love me all these years. I wanted the whole picture, not a hallway shouting match he’d weasel his way out of with that soft smile.
