“Try me.”
“I think he was cheating on me.”
He makes a face. “You only think?”
“That’s the thing,” I say, splaying my hands. “That’s exactly it. A few days before the wedding, I stumbled across some overly emotional, flirty messages to one of his female colleagues. He told her he loved her and said some less than flattering things about me but then brushed it all off as a joke. He made her out to be the one who was acting weirdly. I still don’t know what was going on beyond that. I had a feeling but no evidence and he swore it was nothing. And… Well, we were meant to be so excited for our wedding… I didn’t know what to do. I went numb.”
“Oh Sara,” Gus says, sighing. “He sounds like a prick!”
“The thing is, I feel like I should be more distraught.”
Gus turns his whole body towards me so that his knees graze mine. “You mean like the other night? That seemed pretty distraught to me.”
I knew he’d bring this up again. I mean, how could he not? But the casual way in which he says it has me squirming. “That was… No. I was just really drunk.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Right. So, you feel like this whole thing is karma because you don’t feel sad enoughabout not marrying the man who was probably cheating on you?”
“Yes,” I say but shake my head. “No. I mean, it’s not that. It’s that I can’t shake this guilty feeling. It’s like I did something wrong or made a bad decision that led to this, even though I know I didn’t.”
“I don’t know you well, but I suspect you make good decisions.”
“And how did you come to that conclusion?”
“You don’t seem like the type to make random, mad-dash choices. Current situation notwithstanding.” He grins, trying to shift the mood but blows out a breath when my lips wobble. “So what? What’s the guilt really about?”
I’ve been thinking about this exact thought for weeks. Trying to claw together the reason that my stomach swoops every time I think about the wedding. It’s as though I’m in trouble, as if I’ve done something wrong. I know I haven’t. I know it was all him. And yet I can’t shrug this horrible feeling that maybe I should’ve waited until I had more evidence, that I shouldn’t have trusted my gut feeling alone.
I don’t know how to explain this to the man I barely know so I take a different angle.
“Well… This is alsoourhoneymoon. Even if it was all my idea and I’ve virtually bankrupted myself to make it happen.”
“Ok so let me get this straight. You’re feeling guilty because you’re on a holiday you planned and paid for yourself, and you feel like you shouldn’t be here… for yourself?”
I pause while his words sink in. “Well, when you say it like that it sounds insane.”
“Right.” He nods, expression telling.
I shake my head. “No. You don’t get to do that. Men aren’t allowed to diagnose insanity in women. You lot used up your quota with all those witch trials. It’s not allowed anymore.”
“I’m not callingyouinsane. I’m calling your guilt insane.”
“Well, you’re not allowed.”
“Ok,” he says, raising his hands. “I stand corrected. I am a bad man. I am infected with the patriarchy.”
“Yes. Yes, you are. You need cleansing.”
“How do you do that?” he asks, genuinely curious.
I shrug, drying my tears on the back of my hand. “I’ll throw some vodka at you later and it burns right out.”
“Delicious.”
“Ugh. What do we even do now?” I ask, feeling depleted and pathetic.
I never usually allow myself a moment of self-pity like this, especially in front of other people. I’m unsure what it is about Gus that makes me feel like he’s immune, it’s probably because he’s a stranger who I’m likely never going to see again. And yet, something tells me I, maybe, dangerously, and inadvisably started trusting him.
A celebrity, no less.
