I was standing in my hotel room on my wedding night with lace brushing my ankles, fingers cold, breath caught like it didn’t know where to go, and the room still smelled like champagne and perfume and the sugary leftover warmth of a celebration that suddenly didn’t belong to me. On the bed, Ethan—my husband—shifted slightly, either unaware I was there or so practiced at pretending that he didn’t care, and Brianna, without breaking eye contact with me, lifted a finger to her lips as if I was the one who needed reminding to be quiet.
Then she spoke to Ethan as if this were the most ordinary scene in the world, as if she belonged in the room more than I did. “Honey,” she said, and the word sliced straight through me, “can you pass me my purse? I think I left my keys downstairs.” Honey—my best friend calling my husband honey on my wedding night, and the worst part was that Ethan didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch, didn’t even pretend to be surprised; he simply leaned down, picked up a bag from the floor, and handed it to her with the casual ease of routine, like the room was theirs and I was the intruder.