"We're closing the kitchen in about fifteen minutes, but please don't feel rushed."
I looked at the untouched cake.
"Can we get that boxed?"
"Of course."
Amy smiled apologetically.
"Sorry."
The waiter looked at our tear-streaked faces with the professional neutrality of a man who had probably witnessed divorces, proposals, affairs, reconciliations, and drunken arguments from the same dining room.
"Take your time."
When he left, Amy looked at me.
"Do you wish I hadn't told you?"
I answered honestly.
"Part of me does."
She flinched.
"Because now I know something I can't unknow."
"I understand."
"But I'd rather know you."
She looked up.
"All of you."
Her eyes filled again.
"Even the parts that make me angry."
I reached across the table.
"And I need the same from you."
She took my hand.
"No more waiting until things are resolved."
"That seems impossible."
"Then less waiting."
"Okay."
"No secret coffee with ex-fiancés."
"Definitely."
"That one's specific."
"I deserved that."
"And if Peter contacts you again?"
"I tell you."
"Before answering."
"Yes."
I nodded.
"Good."
Amy squeezed my hand.
"Are you really not upset that I loved him?"
"I don't love it."
She smiled faintly.
"But?"
"But I'm thirty-eight years old."
I shrugged.
"You existed before me."
"So did you."
"Exactly."
"I've always hated thinking about your exes."
"I noticed."
"Especially Jenna."
I laughed.
"Why Jenna?"
"She had perfect hair."
"She used six products."
"I knew it."
We both laughed.
Then Amy became serious again.
"I need you to know something."
"What?"
"I never compared you to Peter."
"Never?"
"Not in the way you're imagining."
"What way did you?"
She considered.
"When we got engaged."
I tightened slightly.
"I remember thinking you asked me what kind of wedding I wanted."
"That seems normal."
"It wasn't normal to me."
I waited.
"You asked where I wanted to live."
"Also normal."
"You asked whether I wanted kids instead of assuming."
"Amy..."
"I know those things sound small."
She looked at me.
"But they were enormous."
I understood then.
I had spent the evening imagining Peter as some great lost love, an invisible rival who occupied a hidden part of my wife's heart.
Maybe he had once.
But the real ghost in our marriage had never been Peter.
It was Amy's fear that love required surrender.
That commitment meant becoming trapped.
That choosing a life once meant forfeiting the right to question it forever.
"I think that's why I fell in love with you," she said.
"Because I ask too many questions?"
"Because you made room."
That sentence moved through me slowly.
"You made room for me to have opinions."
She laughed.
"Even when they annoyed you."
"They often do."
"You made room for me to change my mind."
"Within reason."
"Daniel."
"Sorry."
She squeezed my fingers.
"You never made me feel like loving you required agreeing with you."
I thought about all our arguments.
"That's generous."