Page 80 of Things Left Unsaid

Her jaw works. “Fine.”

“Sleep well.”Mrs. Korhonen.“I’ll knock on your door when it’s time to wake up.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can set my alarm?—”

“I’ll wake you,” I state, gaze locked on hers as, purposely, I press a kiss to her forehead.

A breath catches in her throat as we’re both transported back a decade.

To the last time I did that.

I could be mistaken, but I’m sure her lips quiver before she firms them and, frowning, heads to the door that leads to her bedroom.

As it closes behind her, I dip my hand into my pocket and release the marriage certificate from its confines.

God only knows why I didn’t store it in my luggage. But I’m glad I didn’t now.

Mrs. Susanne Felicia McAllister-Korhonen.

She didn’t expect a wedding band. Never mind an engagement ring.

It was satisfying to slide first one onto her finger and then the other. Even more so to hand her the ring I intended on wearing too.

I could tell she wanted to argue, but only our witnesses and the marriage commissioner’s presence stopped her. Then, after the ceremony, her brain kicked in—it’d look odd in town if she, in particular, didn’t wear both.

It seems each of us is sensible.

I’m not sure I like that.

She didn’t used to be.

She was emotional and quick to cry and faster to laugh. Now, she’s wooden.

It hurts something in me to see that.

Never mindknowingthat I’m part of the reason for the change in her.

Carefully, I fold the certificate up and return it to my pocket, then I set the alarm on my phone and handle the messages on there.

Thanks to ignoring it today, I have a bunch of missed calls. Everything’s urgent so I deal with emails, enough that ninety minutes pass in the blink of an eye.

With a sigh, I glance at her bedroom door then head for a shower.

Once I’ve stripped off, I pack the suit I wore for my wedding ceremony into my garment bag.

It was a simple affair—neither of us expected much more, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t make it special.

I doubt I’ll be doing this again even if she does after we divorce.

So, I tried.

I think it worked—I saw her tuck the small posy of flowers I had delivered to Marc Robard’s club into her purse. And she keeps on rubbing her thumb over her rings.

Marc is my personal attorney. The reason I asked him to be a witness was to access the orangery in his club that’s famous in Saskatoon for its domed, stained-glass roof that lets in even the most meager of wintry light.

Surrounded by orange trees, in the sticky warmth of a silent conservatory, we said our vows to the marriage commissioner.

Whether I asked for this or not, it’s a day I won’t forget in a hurry.

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