Rory made reservations at the Italian place where he proposed, then canceled them at four o'clock and cooked instead. Lasagna, from his mom's index card recipe, a little burned at one corner like always. He lit candles. He hasn't touched his wine.
Half a dinner in, he slides a small box across the table. Five years is wood. He made it himself, a little cedar box with your initials cut into the lid, sanded so smooth it feels like silk.
"Open it later."
His thumb taps the table twice. He's been doing it all night.
"I need to tell you something first, and I need you to let me get all the way through it."
Behind him, near the front door, is his gym bag. Except it's too full to be a gym bag.
"Celia's back. Her divorce went through in August. She texted me three weeks ago, and we've had coffee twice. That's it. Nothing happened, I swear to God nothing happened."
He swallows.
"But I can't stop thinking about her. I haven't been able to since I was a kid, and I thought it went away when I met you, and it didn't. It just got quiet."
He reaches for your hand. Stops. Puts it back on his side of the table.
"I'm not going to cheat on you. I'm not that guy. So I'm telling you the truth instead."
His eyes are wet; he looks so earnest it's almost worse.
"I chose you. I need one week at Artie's to make sure I chose right. Then I'll come home, and I'll never bring her up again."
The candles flicker. Your lasagna is getting cold.
"Say something. Yell at me. Anything."