"Sure."
"Are you messing with me? Is this some kind of game?"
She looks up, genuine confusion on her face. "What?"
"All of this. The schedule. The toys. The charts and brochures." I gesture vaguely. "Everything. Are you doing this on purpose? To drive me crazy?"
"Why would I do that?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm asking you."
She zips up her tote bag with finality. "I was trying to be helpful. Prepared."
"By bringing a strap-on to dinner?"
"The woman at the store said some men like exploration and variety—"
"I'm not some men."
"I'm starting to understand that now." She stands, picking up her bag. "I should probably go."
"You haven't finished your pasta."
"I'm not hungry anymore." She picks up her bag. "I'm sorry, Santo. I thought I was doing the right thing. Being proactive. Planning ahead for our future. I guess I was completely wrong."
She sounds genuine. She looks genuine.
But I still can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something important.
"Liana, wait—"
"It's fine. Really." She heads for the door. "I'll see you... when? Should I check the calendar—sorry, I mean, should I text you about next time?"
"Yes. Text me."
"Okay." She opens the door, then stops. Her shoulders shake slightly.
Is she—
She turns back around. There are tears in her eyes. Actual tears. Real tears streaming down her face.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice breaking with emotion. "I just—I wanted to be a good wife. Like my mother is. But I don't know how to do this. I don't know what you want from me."
The tears spill over, running down her cheeks. She wipes at them quickly, embarrassed.
"I thought if I planned everything, if I was organized and prepared and ready, then I wouldn't mess this up. But I did mess it up. I always mess things up." She's crying harder now, her voice thick. "And now you think I'm crazy and you probably don't even want to marry me anymore and—"
"Liana." I cross the room to her. "Stop. You're not crazy."
"Yes, I am! I brought sex toys to dinner! Who does that?" She laughs through her tears, the sound half sob. "A crazy person, that's who."
"You're not crazy," I repeat, even though part of me isn't entirely sure. "You're just... enthusiastic about planning."
"Is that what we're calling it?" She wipes at her eyes again. "I'm so embarrassed."
And she looks it. Her face is flushed red. Her eyes are swollen. She's genuinely crying real tears.
Guilt hits me hard in the chest.
