And a woman at a café who seemed to know something about my marriage.
I felt physically sick.
The explanation seemed obvious.
Mark was having an affair.
Perhaps he’d already proposed.
Perhaps he’d secretly married someone during the weekend.
And perhaps he’d taken off the new ring before returning home, forgetting that the August sun had left its outline on his finger.
I returned the receipt and key card exactly where I’d found them.
Then I carried the bag back to the closet.
I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and sat on the edge of the bathtub.
I pressed a towel against my mouth so Mark wouldn’t hear me crying.
That night, I barely slept.
Instead, I remembered our life together.
I first met Mark when I was twenty-three.
I worked at my uncle’s hardware store.
One afternoon, a young construction worker came in covered in drywall dust.
He needed a particular hinge but couldn’t remember what it was called.
So he drew a picture on the back of a receipt.
It was a terrible drawing.
I laughed.
He pretended to look offended.
“I’m a builder, not an artist.”
“Clearly,” I replied.
He came back the next day.
And the next.
And the day after that.
On his fourth visit, he finally asked me to dinner.
Our first date was at a little pizza restaurant where the tables were permanently sticky.
Our second date was a drive north to Loon Lake.
Mark wanted to show me the place he’d visited with his grandfather as a boy.
We sat on a dock watching the sunset.
The water reflected orange, purple, and gold beneath the dark pine trees.
Suddenly, Mark looked at me.
“I’m going to marry you someday.”
I laughed.
“Mark, you’ve known me eight days.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
“I’m going to marry you anyway.”
Fourteen months later, he did.
We married in my parents’ backyard.
Then drove straight to Loon Lake for our honeymoon.
Four nights at the Lakeview Inn.
Room 12.
I remembered our first tiny apartment.
The year his construction business nearly failed.
The nights we survived on inexpensive spaghetti.
The day Sophie was born.
Mark holding our newborn daughter and crying harder than anyone else in the delivery room.
I remembered the accident that damaged his finger.
The night he placed his repaired wedding ring in my palm.
And his quiet apology.
“I’m sorry, Lee. It just hurts too much.”
I had told him it didn’t matter.
