It was our anniversary. Two years since Brett Daniels had dropped to one knee in the town square in Sonoma while tourists clapped and my mother dabbed fake tears from the corners of her eyes as if she had always wanted me happy. I had spent the week pretending I was not the only one planning tonight. I’d bought the Cabernet he liked, the expensive one I usually skipped because I made good money as a pharmacist but not the kind that invited careless spending. I had polished Betty’s silver until it mirrored the candles. I had ironed the linen runner. I had arranged white roses at the center of the table because Brett once told me they made the house look “like real money,” and I had laughed then because I thought he was joking.
Now, looking back, it should have bothered me more how often he spoke about money as if it were a personality trait.
The oven timer still had six minutes left when my phone buzzed against the counter.
Brett.
I smiled before I answered because that was habit. “Hey, honey. You are cutting it close. The Wellington turned out perfect. I opened the wine so it could breathe.”