That evening, we loaded the wedding decorations into the cars. Twenty boxes of centerpieces. The guest book. Emma’s grandmother’s cake knife wrapped in a dish towel. David hummed while he carried boxes. I watched him and didn’t say anything.
When the last box was in, I went into the kitchen.
I put the receipt with the phone number face up on the counter.
“Do you recognize this?” I asked.
David looked at it. He picked it up.
“No,” he said. “Should I?”
“Somebody used it yesterday. To call Emma’s bakery. Pretending to be Emma. And telling them not to give me the cake.”
He frowned. “That’s weird.”
“And apparently,” I said, “you were at that bakery a few weeks ago. With her.”
David froze.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t ask what I was talking about.
He just stood there holding the receipt. And all the color slowly went out of his face.
