Then her eyes widen.
“Oh,” she says, blinking.
“Yes.”
She looks from me to the paper and back again, her lips twitching slightly.
“Well,” she says slowly, “that’s… unexpected.”
Unexpected.
That’s one way to put it.
“I don’t…” she continues, shaking her head lightly, still sounding more stunned than scared. “I hardly remember that part.”
I do.
At least enough.
We got drunk. We got reckless. We got married.
Jesus Christ.
I drag a hand down my face.
This isn’t how I operate.
I don’t lose control. I don’t forget names. I don’t wake up married.
This isn’t me.
Except it is.
Talia seems to shake herself physically, like she’s resetting.
I watch her spine straighten.
Her shoulders roll back.
Her chin lifts.
“Well, Hercules,” she says brightly, brushing invisible crumbs off her dress, “my grandma always told me I would marry rich. Guess she was right.”
Her voice is already back to its usual sparkle.
I huff out a short laugh before I can stop myself.
Then I sober immediately. “This is no laughing matter.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Ah, it’s okay, husband.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Yes, dear.”
I exhale sharply through my nose.
This is no use.
