One slice of chocolate hazelnut cake with two forks.
Amy stared at it.
"You remembered."
"You talked about it for twenty minutes in March."
"I did not."
"You showed me three pictures."
"That doesn't count as talking."
"It absolutely counts."
She smiled.
This time the smile reached her eyes.
For several seconds, she looked exactly like the woman I knew.
I relaxed.
Then she put her fork down.
Her hand moved across the table.
She gripped mine.
Hard.
"Daniel."
Everything inside me tightened again.
"What?"
Her eyes filled immediately.
"There is something you still don't know."
Those seven words changed the temperature of the room.
The restaurant was still warm.
People were still talking.
Silverware still clicked softly against plates.
A woman near the bar laughed loudly.
But suddenly I felt cold.
"What is it?"
Amy looked toward the tables around us.
Then toward the waiter.
Then back at me.
"I should've told you years ago."
My heartbeat became louder.
"But I didn't know how."
She swallowed.
"Then too much time passed."
I said nothing.
"And every year it got harder."
The fear in her face terrified me more than the words.
"Amy."
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
She began crying.
Not dramatically.
Just tears sliding down her cheeks while she tried to stay composed.
My mind went directly to another man.
"Are you seeing somebody?"
Her eyes widened.
"No."
The answer came instantly.
Some of the pressure left my chest.
"Have you?"
"No."
"Then what?"
She grabbed her napkin.
"Before we got married..."
She stopped.
I waited.
"I was engaged."
For several seconds, I genuinely thought I had misunderstood her.
"You were what?"
"Engaged."
"To someone else?"
The question was ridiculous, but shock produces stupid sentences.
Amy nodded.
I stared at her.
"Before me?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"About a year and a half before we met."
I leaned back.
I had expected adultery.
Somehow, the fact that the secret belonged to the past did not immediately make it harmless.
An engagement was not a forgotten high-school boyfriend.
It was a proposal.
A ring.
Families.
A wedding plan.
A future.
And in twelve years together, Amy had never mentioned it.
Not once.
"What was his name?"
"Peter."
The name sounded strangely intimate coming from her.
"Peter what?"
"Peter Lawson."
I searched my memory.
Nothing.
No Peter Lawson in family stories.
No Peter in old photographs I had seen.
No college friend she casually avoided discussing.
Nothing.
"How long were you together?"
"Almost four years."
Four years.
I looked at my wife.
"You were with somebody for four years?"
She nodded.
"And engaged."
"Eight months."
"And I never knew?"