I spin my wedding ring around on my finger. It’s a type of ring I never thought I’d be wearing, and don’t even remember purchasing.
It’s still strange being married. And yet each time I’ve spoken to someone else—the nurse at the hospital, the waiter at dinner, the butler at the hotel—calling Millie my wife falls off my tongue easier and easier.
She isn’t my wife, in any sense of the word. We haven’t f****d. We’ve barely kissed. We know nothing about each other’s history. And for the past week, we’ve hardly talked to each other except when necessary. We know a line was crossed that day.
Our first kiss toed the line.
Our second pushed us over.
Our third sent us tumbling over a cliff.
Not to mention our experiences rescuing each other from death. There is no going back. No pretendi
