Another future.
Another version of herself.
"I wasn't thinking about Peter," she said.
"Then what?"
"I was thinking about whether I was capable of marriage."
That hurt in a different way.
"Because you thought you'd run again."
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because what was I supposed to say?"
She looked at me helplessly.
"'Daniel, before I accept, you should know I already destroyed one wedding?'"
"You could've told me exactly that."
"I know."
"You trusted me enough to marry me but not enough to tell me why marriage scared you?"
She looked down.
"No."
The honesty stung.
I sat back.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
The restaurant around us had thinned.
A waiter cleared a table nearby.
The chocolate cake remained almost untouched.
I stared at my wife.
My anger had become complicated.
I understood why twenty-four-year-old Amy had left Peter.
I even admired it.
Walking away three weeks before a wedding required more courage than staying because cancellation felt embarrassing.
But the secret was different.
She had not merely avoided discussing an old boyfriend.
She had removed an entire formative experience from the version of herself she gave me.
"Why now?"
I asked.
Amy went still.
There it was.
The question that changed the conversation.
She looked toward the wineglass.
Then at me.
"Because Peter contacted me."
My chest tightened again.
"When?"
"Last month."
"How?"
"Facebook."
"You still use Facebook?"
"Apparently for disasters."
I didn't laugh.
"What did he say?"
"He sent a message."
"What message?"
"'It's been a long time. I hope you're well. I've thought about reaching out for years. If you're ever comfortable, I'd like to talk.'"
"And you answered."
"Eventually."
"How long did you wait?"
"Four days."
"What did you say?"
"That I was married and happy, but if what he wanted was closure, I was willing to talk."
I could feel jealousy rising again.
"Did you tell me?"
"No."
"Obviously."
"I'm sorry."
"Did you meet him?"
"Yes."
The restaurant disappeared again.
"When?"
"Two weeks ago."
"Where?"
"Harbor Coffee."
I knew the place.
Ten minutes from Amy's office.
"During work?"
"Lunch."
"How long?"
"About an hour."
"Did anybody see you?"
She looked confused.
"Probably."
"Did you care?"
"Daniel."
"I'm trying to understand."
"I know."
I rubbed my forehead.
"You met a man you were once supposed to marry and didn't tell your husband."
"Yes."
"That's not nothing."
"I know."
"What happened?"
"Nothing romantic."
"That wasn't my question."
She swallowed.
"We talked."
"About?"
"The wedding."
"And?"
"The breakup."
"And?"
"Our lives."