I dismissed the memory, forcing myself to stand. I was being ridiculous. Mark just wanted everything to be perfect. He was stressed about the party at the Magnolia Grill. He wanted to show me off. That was love, wasn’t it?

I went back to the bedroom. Mark was still asleep, a dark shape under the quilt. I looked at him—the gray at his temples, the familiar curve of his nose. Twenty years. You can’t fake twenty years.

But as I lay back down, pulling the covers up to my chin, my father’s voice echoed in the dark, louder than my logic.

Don’t wear the dress.

The morning sun did little to burn off the fog of dread. Mark woke up cheerful, whistling as he dressed for work.