Olivier had suggested we use our wedding date for the safe’s code, but I can’t remember which day that was exactly. I have such fuzzy memories of that trip to the city—meeting Olivier, my father’s funeral, feeling wild andspontaneous as we walked into City Hall, dying to see the look on Darren’s face. And Taylor’s face. Sometimes I wonder if these few days—just over a week!—were all just a terrible nightmare. You know, aside from the part where I came away with two million dollars and the deed to my house.
Lucky for me, my phone knows everything. Flicking through pictures of that day, I find the date easily: April 27. I type in 0427 on the keypad but the door doesn’t open. In fact, a beep resonates as a red light flashes. What the? I try again; same result. Fuck.
I can’t ask Olivier, obviously. He stormed off after our fight. He was so mad to learn I’d been making plans to sell my house while we were here. Couldn’t I sit still for a minute and enjoy this perfect honeymoon? I’d be more than happy if he never showed his face here again. But he will. He has to. I don’t have much time. And then it comes back to me. It was a comment Olivier made when we were in the city, how he never understood the date system in America.It makes no sense, putting the month before the day. The rest of the world does it the right way: day, month, year. Why do Americans have to do everything differently?It struck me because it was the first time—theonlytime—Olivier had a bad thing to say about his new country. Everything else was perfect: the job market, the economic growth, the can-do attitude. There were so many reasons hehadto stay there and couldn’t fathom moving back to France.
I kneel back in front of the safe, this time typing 2704. The door unlatches with a much softer buzz, unveiling my passport. I slip it inside my Chanel. I can leave now. I’m free. I can divorce him, not right this minute, but soon. I’m free. So why does it feel like I’m not?
I’m about to lock the safe again when I see Olivier’s backpack against the wall. I remember now: we were at the airport, waiting to board. Olivier went to the restrooms and asked me to watch it. But then I realized I had to go, too. I didn’t want him to know I was nervous. I’d never been on a plane before, never left the country. I only had a passport because Mom planned that stupid trip to Paris for Taylor all these years ago. Forher, she couldclose the inn. Forher, she could plan a vacation. Anything for Taylor, the daughter she actually wanted, the one who didn’t drive her husband away.
I wasn’t going to carry Olivier’s big backpack to the restrooms with me, and I wouldn’t be long anyway. When I came back, Olivier was livid.
“You left my bag here?” he said.
I shrugged. “I was only gone a few minutes.”
He exhaled loudly. I’d never seen him so upset. “My wallet is in there. What were you thinking?”
I didnotlike his tone. “You don’t have any money.” I loved to remind him of that.Hedidn’t have money;Idid. “And who would want to steal that?” The bag was nylon, nondescript.
“My passport’s in there. Remember what the lawyer said? This temporary green card I have is linked to it. If I lose my passport, it will set back my case by months while I apply for a new one. And I couldn’t even get back in the country!”
People were starting to look at us. “Everything’s fine,” I said. “Nobody stole anything. Just chill, okay?”
I don’t close the safe. Instead, I grab Olivier’s passport, which was in there with mine. I hold in my hand his most precious possession. Without it, he can’t fly home with me. Without it, I’ll have plenty of time to figure things out with Darren while Olivier is stuck here. I look around the room for a sharp object. I find one a few minutes later, a Swiss Army knife that doubles as a corkscrew, in the drawer next to the mini fridge.
Slicing through the burgundy leatherlike cover feels better than I could have imagined. Then, I rip up the passport page by page. Soon it’s in pieces around me and I can’t contain the gleeful sigh that comes out. Brushing my hands along the carpet, I gather all the pieces together, then stuff them into the pockets of my denim jacket to discard later. I don’t want to be here when he finds out what I did.
And I won’t be. I flick through my phone and look up my flight details. I’m going home. Today, if possible. But the app won’t let me do anything.An error message appears every time I click on the Change Flight button, telling me that no changes can be made online and that I should call customer service. Gah!
My eyes firmly on the door, I call the Delta hotline. A robotic voice announces that the wait to speak to an agent is around three hours. I choose the option to have them call me back instead of staying on the line and hang up. Then, I pace the room, wondering if I should start packing. I bought so many things—that Chanel bag and ballet flats, the Saint Laurent sandals, a mountain of clothes, that cute little straw basket—and I don’t know how it will all fit. I should get started now, but if Olivier comes back and sees what I’m doing, there’s no telling what he might do. The lawyer’s words ring in my ears. People who have nothing to lose are the most dangerous ones.
So maybe I won’t leave today. It’s midafternoon now, and if I have to wait that long to change my ticket, I might just have to stay another night. In fact, maybe it’s better this way. If I run away from my honeymoon at the first sign of Darren wanting me back, he might find it a little too easy. But he does want me back, right? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? I stare at my phone. There’s only one way to find out. While I wait for him to pick up the phone, I step out onto the balcony, my fingers cramping more with every ringtone.
“Well, hello there!” he says, his voice soft and honeyed. “Did you like the video?”
My skin tingles everywhere, but I need to keep my head straight. “What are you doing?”
He sighs, waits a beat, then says, “I don’t know.”
The pain is sharp, slicing through my heart. “Okay, then bye,” I say sharply, like I’m going to hang up.
“No, wait. I always thought we wanted different things. When I talked about marriage before, you’d scoff, saying it was for boring people.”
He’s not wrong about that. My parents were married and look where that got them!
“Your life doesn’t seem so boring now,” Darren adds.
I smile but something bothers me. Why didn’t he try to win me back before the wedding? I waited. I would have gotten rid of Olivier. No one knew we were already married, and it would have been easier to explain it all away. I got engaged to someone else, Darren realized the big mistake he’d made, he won me back, engagement over.
But then he undoes me. “I know he has money and everything, but I miss you, Cassie. We were good together. Maybe I didn’t realize what I had at the time but… I wish we could do it all over again.”
We can, I want to scream.We can and we will.“You didn’t say anything before.”
“We broke up so many times. And then you turned up with him.”
“You never said anything,” I repeat, wanting to sound strong and resolved when, in reality, I know my willpower is shredding like Olivier’s passport did a few minutes ago.
“I’m saying it now.”
