She had one hand on Grant’s. Not brushing. Holding.
My husband finally looked up at me, and the guilt on his face hit like a door slamming.
Not shock. Not confusion. Guilt.
The cathedral seemed to narrow around me. The air smelled suddenly metallic, like a cut lip. Every late night at the office, every “conference,” every trip he’d cut short with excuses about mergers or clients or red-eye flights started lining up in my head so fast I almost got dizzy.
“Why is she wearing my dress?” I asked.
Nobody answered immediately, which was answer enough.
Becca crossed one leg over the other and gave a tiny shrug. The hem shifted against her knee. I knew that dress so well I could tell by the way it moved that she’d had it taken in at the waist.
“Oh, this?” she said. “Grant gave it to me. He said you never wore it.”
I looked at Grant.
His eyes flicked away so fast it was almost funny. Fifteen years of marriage, and the man still thought not making eye contact counted as strategy.
“Tell me she’s lying,” I said.
“Natalie,” he muttered, leaning forward like he was trying to quiet a child at church. “Not here.”