Our hotel overlooked black water reflecting strings of harbor lights.
Adrian did not produce a dramatic gift.
No box.
No speech.
No symbolic moment on a beach.
We ate dinner.
Went to bed.
The next morning, I woke before him.
For one second, I remembered the tuxedo pocket and panic returned.
Then Adrian opened one eye.
“Are you checking my clothes?”
“No.”
“Should I submit them for inspection?”
“Tempting.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“That is not me trying to skip the conversation.”
“Good.”
“I’m going to keep saying it.”
“Also good.”
I looked toward the balcony.
“Do you regret doing it?”
Adrian thought carefully.
“I regret hiding it.”
“Not restoring everything.”
“No.”
“I’m glad I did that.”
I appreciated the distinction.
“So am I.”
He exhaled.
“Okay.”
“But if you ever secretly meet another estranged relative of mine for eleven months—”
“I’m aware.”
