The letter said he was sorry. The letter said he had ended things with Claire permanently. The letter said he understood if Elena could not forgive him. The letter asked for a conversation when she was ready. The letter did not ask, Elena noticed, whether the engagement was still an engagement. It assumed the question was still on the table. She hated the assumption and also understood it: people who build futures together do not know how to demolish them without checking whether the other person is still holding a hammer.
On the fourth morning she met him at a diner near the station, public enough to prevent shouting, private enough in its vinyl booths that strangers would only half listen. She ordered coffee and eggs she would not finish. He ordered the same, a mimicry she found either pathetic or tender and refused to classify.
"I am returning to Chicago tomorrow," Elena said. "I am not returning the ring yet. I am also not wearing it. I am putting the wedding planning on ice. If you contact the venue, you will tell them we need time, not that I am being difficult. If your mother asks, you will tell her the truth in whatever dose you can stand, because I will not perform okay for her holiday cards."
Marcus nodded. "And us?"
"There is no us that I recognize this week. There is a man who lied and a woman who is deciding whether the lying is a season or a climate. I will not be rushed by your guilt. Guilt is not the same as change."
"I know."