The things between my fingers were small, cold, and definitely not a hotel key card.
I stood frozen beside the armchair in our suite, a hotel robe knotted at my waist, my heart beating loudly in my chest. Ian was still buried under the duvet three feet away, one bare arm flung across the pillow I’d slept on.
I didn’t dare look down at my hand yet. I looked at him instead.
My heart beating loudly in my chest.
Twenty-four hours ago, I’d been standing across from him in a garden full of fairy lights, promising him everything. Now I was standing over his tuxedo as if it were evidence.
I’m getting ahead of myself; let me back up.
***
My name is Sharon. I’m 27, and until that morning, I would’ve told you I had the least dramatic love story of anyone in my friend group. Which, if you knew my dating history, would’ve been a genuine miracle.
