The roses still smelled sharp and clean.
A grounds worker coiled the green hose beside the patio as though it had not become the most honest object at the party.
Ethan brought me a towel from inside.
He wrapped it around my shoulders the way he had when he was eight years old and I came home soaked after changing a tire for him in a storm.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “You should have told me what you were planning.”
“Would you have let me come?”
“No.”
“That is why I didn’t.”
He looked toward the railing where the ring box still sat.
“I thought I knew her.”
“I know.”
“I defended her.”
“I know that too.”
He lowered his head.
“I am sorry.”
I touched his cheek.
“Her choices are not your shame.”
That was the sentence he needed.
Not absolution. Not blame. A boundary between what he had failed to notice and what Vanessa had deliberately done.
