Page 136 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

Dante watches me devour fried dough with a smile I haven’t seen on him in a very long time.

He says nothing. He doesn’t need to.

We wander between the stalls.

I buy little things for everyone.

We laugh a lot. About nothing. About everything. About how disturbingly easy it is for certain habits to come back.

I stop in front of one stand and pick up a pair of blinking LED glasses.

“Who’s that for?” Dante asks.

“Andrea. To complete his super-spy outfit.”

A real laugh escapes him. Open. Spontaneous.

And the sound hits me harder than I expect.

*

Fatigue eventually catches up with me and we head back to the manor without rushing.

It’s almost noon.

I open the refrigerator and quickly take inventory.

“Lasagna?”

“Gladly.”

I pull out the ingredients.

Without needing to exchange a word, he grabs the cutting board.

Me, the saucepan. Him, the vegetables. Our movements fall naturally into place, like before.

As though this kind of memory survives everything.

Even after two years apart.

It used to be one of our weekend rituals: a messy kitchen, music playing softly, and the two of us in the middle of it.

And there’s something absurd and wonderful about finding ourselves here again, him peeling tomatoes while I chop onions, on Christmas Eve.

“Doesn’t it bother you to sacrifice four hundred wedding meals just to eat lasagna with me?”

He looks up at me, amused.

“They won’t go to waste.”

I frown.

“What do you mean?”

“They’ll be distributed tonight to charities and shelters. Along with the champagne.”

I smile immediately.