Six Weeks Before The End

"You're going to marry him, and it's going to be perfect," her best friend Priya said. "So stop looking at me like the ceiling is about to fall."

Lina was looking at the ceiling.

The champagne glass in her hand was nearly empty. The hotel suite was full of flowers and satin and the low thrum of a playlist she had let Priya build because making decisions felt impossible lately.

"The ceiling is not going to fall," Priya said again.

"He asked me last night if I was happy." Lina sat up. "Just like that. Out of nowhere. Are you happy, Lina? Like he already knew the answer."

"What did you say?"

"I said yes."

"Were you lying?"

Silence.

Priya refilled her glass. "Okay. You're just having cold feet. Every bride gets cold feet. It doesn't mean anything."

"He loves me too much," Lina said. "Is that a thing? Is that a real thing that can be a problem?"

"Lina."

"He watches me like I'm the only person in the room. Every room. Always. And I don't know how to be that for someone."

"You love him."

"I know I do." She set the glass down. "That's what scares me."

Two hours later, Priya was asleep on the suite sofa and Lina was still awake.

She poured the last of the champagne. Then she opened the minibar. Then she made a mistake she would spend months regretting.

She texted Marcos.

"Can't sleep. You up?"

She told herself it was innocent. Marcos was Freddie's best friend. She had known him for three years. He was safe.

He replied in under a minute.

"Come down. I'm in the bar."

The bar was dim and nearly empty. Marcos was in a corner booth, jacket off, tie loose, a glass of something amber in front of him. He looked up when she walked in. That slow smile again. The one that never quite reached his eyes.

"Runaway bride," he said.

"I'm not running anywhere."

"You're in a hotel bar at midnight the night before your wedding. In your pajamas." He tilted his head. "You're running."

She sat across from him. "Order me something."

He did.

They talked. Or she talked, and he listened in that particular way he had, leaning forward, eyes on her face, nodding slowly. He was good at that. Making you feel like the only person in the world.

She should have noticed.

She didn't.

The drinks kept coming. The room started to tilt. She remembered laughing. She remembered his hand on the table, close to hers. She remembered thinking she should go back upstairs.

She remembered very little after that.

The morning light came through curtains that were not hers.

She lay still for three full seconds before she moved.

Then she turned her head.

Marcos was asleep beside her. One arm flung out. Breathing slowly.

Lina sat up.

She looked down at herself. At the sheets. At the room.

Her dress was on the chair. Her shoes were by the door.

She got up very quietly. She got dressed very quickly. She did not wake him.

She walked out of his hotel room, down four floors, and into her own suite. She stood in front of her bathroom mirror for a long time.

Then she went to the church.

And she stood at the altar.

And she looked at Freddie's hopeful, trusting, burning eyes.

And she said what she said.

She never told anyone about that morning.

Not until the morning, eight weeks later, when a pregnancy test showed two lines.

And she sat on the bathroom floor with her back against the tub.

And she knew exactly who the father was.

Or thought she did.