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Sam

The first time I saw evidence my husband was cheating on me, I was wearing a wedding dress worth more than my car.

“Can’t stop thinking about last night.”

The words flashed across Garrett’s phone screen before he could tilt it away. I’d been adjusting his boutonniere, my hands steady even though my nerves were shot. Wedding day jitters, right? Wrong. The message preview disappeared as he locked his phone, shoving it into his tux pocket fast enough to make my stomach drop.

“Who was that?” I asked, keeping my voice light. Years of customer service had taught me how to smile through anything.

“Just one of the groomsmen,” Garrett said, straightening his cuffs. “Bachelor party joke. You know how they are.”

I did know how they were. I’d helped plan the damn thing. Fancy bar, expensive whiskey, the works. Standard fare for a group of finance bros who thought personality meant having opinions about cryptocurrency. But here was the thing about being with someone for so many years: you learned their tells. The way Garrett’s left eye twitched when he said he was working late. The way he cleared his throat before delivering bad news. The way he couldn’t quite meet my eyes when he was hiding something.

And right now, he was doing all three.

“Right,” I said, smoothing down my dress. The lace caught on my engagement ring, and I had to carefully untangle it. “Well, we should probably head back. Bad luck and all that.”

“You don’t believe in that stuff,” he said, finally looking at me. His smile was the same one he used on difficult clients. All teeth, no soul.

“Maybe I’m feeling traditional today.”

The thing was, I’d insisted on seeing him before the ceremony. Called the whole “bad luck to see the bride” tradition archaic and stupid. Garrett had agreed because Garrett agreed with everything that made him look like the perfect fiancé. Progressive. Supportive. The kind of guy who posts feminist quotes on LinkedIn.

But now, standing in this cramped back room of the venue, surrounded by boxes of extra centerpieces and the overwhelming smell of roses, I wanted nothing more than to rewind the last ten minutes. To unknow what I’d seen.

The contact name had been “2.”

Just the number 2.

Who saves someone in their phone as a number?

“Sam?” Garrett’s hand touched my elbow. “You okay? You look pale.”

“Just nerves,” I said, forcing myself back into the moment. Into my body. Into this dress that suddenly felt too tight around my ribs. “Big day and all.”

“The biggest,” he agreed, leaning in to kiss my forehead. His cologne was too strong. When had that started bothering me? “I love you.” The words felt like sand in my mouth.

“Love you too.”

His reply came out automatic, like a cashier saying “have a nice day.” Muscle memory more than emotion.

I made my way back to the bridal suite, where my sister Sophie was touching up her makeup. Seven months pregnant and glowing in that way people always claim pregnant women glow but usually don’t. Sophie actually did. Even in the unflattering lavender bridesmaid dress she’d had to buy two sizes up, she looked radiant.

“There you are!” She turned from the mirror, mascara wand in hand. “Mom’s having a meltdown about the flowers. Apparently, the roses are too pink? I don’t know. I’ve been hiding in here.”

“Smart move.” I sank into one of the velvet chairs, careful not to wrinkle my dress. Four thousand dollars of French lace and hand-sewn beads. I’d eaten ramen for three months to afford it.

“You see Garrett?”

“Yeah.”

“And the world didn’t end?” Sophie grinned, going back to her mascara. “See? Traditions are bullshit.”

“Language,” I said automatically, gesturing at her belly.