The next morning, Nate was charming again. He brought me coffee in bed, the way he hadn’t in years.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Work’s been brutal. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“Okay,” I said carefully.
“I want to make it up to you. At the anniversary party.” He smiled, the smile that used to make my knees weak. “I have a surprise planned. Something special. Just trust me, okay?”
After he left for the gym, I went into the home office to find our homeowner’s insurance policy for Elena. The file cabinet was unlocked. It’s our shared cabinet, and I have every right to open it.
In the folder labeled HOUSE, on top of the insurance policy, was a document I’d never seen before. It was a Cook County marriage license application, filled out in Nate’s handwriting, with his name and mine and our dates of birth. The space for my signature was blank.
