Being trapped in an elevator with Harry went from feeling like a nightmare to feeling like an opportunity. When he put his arms around me, I was prepared for my panic to hit full scale. But instead, I felt safe. It was the first time a man had held me to comfort me in so long. And it felt so nice. Almost too nice.

When he started talking and mentioned his dead fiancée, something in his voice was startlingly familiar. And it took me from feeling vulnerable to feeling like I'd been thrown a life line. It may have been selfish for me to push him to talk, but I thought this might be my chance to tell my story to someone who I’d never have to face again.

He sits back down on the floor, and I join him, sitting right next to him. I make myself remain silent while I wait for him to talk. I glance at his profile and again marvel at how handsome he is. I push that thought aside because it's a total waste of time. I'm not in a place where I should be admiring anybody. When he touched my face in the lobby, it felt so good. I'm embarrassed that he saw me leaving with that man. I would have let Mr. Mediocre fuck me, but that's all I've got to give right now. I know already that sex with Harry couldn't be just that.

"We grew up next door to each other." He starts talking and pulls me out of my reverie. "Our union was sort of… for lack of a better word, pre-ordained. And it didn’t require much effort on my part. She was beautiful, smart, well-educated and really excited about us being together. When I moved home after university, our mothers set us up. We went on a blind date."

"Wait, how do you go on a blind date with someone you've known your whole life?" I interrupt.

“I hadn't seen her since I went away to college. So, we grew up together, but I didn't even remember what she looked like." He flicks me an irritated glance. “No questions, remember?”

"Sorry, gosh," I mutter.

"Anyway, it was fine, we had a good time. We kept seeing each other. After three years, I asked her to marry me. I felt like it was time, and you know, like it was meant to be. We agreed on a long engagement, planned to get married eighteen months after our mothers started planning the wedding. I worked for my family business and was busy learning the ropes, and she was involved in a lot of local charities and was busy planning fundraisers, volunteering and whatever else she did."

He sighs and tips his head sideways to look at me. "You know, I didn't really know much about what else she did. God, what a disaster we were. From the beginning," he says, his eyes full of misery. I put my hand on his arm, and surprisingly, he covers it with his. The most remarkable thing about this moment is that it doesn't scare me or make me want to pull away.

"She said she was going away with her best friend. They were spending a week in Naples, soaking up the sun and drinking lots of wine. And I barely kissed her goodbye when she left. In fact, I felt relieved that she was gone. It meant I could focus on work without worrying about entertaining her. "

My eyebrows shoot to the top of my hairline at that, but I don't say a word. He looks at me like he can hear my thoughts anyway and gives me a humorless smile.

"I know how it sounds. And I won't even pretend that I didn't mean it. I did. She wasn't a priority, more like an obligation, and I regret every second of that relationship. I knew for months that I didn’t really want to marry her, but I didn't have the courage to tell anyone."

He looks at our joined hands, but his stare is blank.

"She’d been gone for four days when I got a call from my best friend, William. It was early on a Wednesday morning, and it wasn't unusual for us to talk during the week. So, I answered, unprepared for anything out of the ordinary." He runs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes for a minute and taking a deep breath, as if to steel himself.

"His voice. It was completely shattered, but yet so calm as he told me that Zara had drowned. She was swimming in the shallows and got caught by an unexpected undertow. She was there one minute and gone the next. And the whole time he was talking, all I could think was, 'Why is he calling me?' I mean, they knew each other.” He shrugs slightly, “but he was the last person who I would expect to be calling me with this news. She had been with her friend, Charlotte. So, the first thing I asked Will was how he knew. And that's when everything came out. He was with her. Charlotte was just a cover. He started crying and told me that he loved her. That they were in love with each other."

"Your best friend? And your fiancée?" I ask, unable to believe what I'm hearing.

"Yes. And everyone—at least a lot of friends—knew.”

"So, what happened?" I ask, then cringe apologetically when I hear the excitement in my voice. "Sorry, I just can't believe this."

"It's okay. It's been nearly two years since she died." He dismisses my apology with a casual wave of his hand. He shakes his head dejectedly. "They didn't even have to try hard to hide the affair from me. I had already started traveling a lot because of my family’s business. I didn't even think about taking her to the airport. I hadn't called her all week while she was away. He had loved her. He wanted her, but she was with me."

"I don't understand. If you didn't love her and she didn't love you, why in the world were you getting married?" I demand, not understanding any of this. He looks at me, and for the first time I see the same weariness in his eyes that I often see in my own. I put my arm on his shoulder and squeeze it. He smiles at my touch, his eyes grateful.

"I don't know. It was expected."

"Expected? Are you a prince or something?" I ask with a laugh.

"No, it's just that...I don't know. It’s complicated." He laughs at himself, but I can sense his reluctance to tell me more about his family. I decide not to push since I have plenty I don't want to share, either.

"So, what happened? Did you kick William's ass?" I prod.

"No, I haven't spoken to him since that phone call. He didn't come to the funeral. He moved away, and I haven't seen him since."

"Damn," is all I can manage. "That sounds like a soap opera."

"It felt like one. Her parents are still my parents’ neighbors. They lost a daughter. I don't think they knew about William, and if they did, no one's ever mentioned it. We all just tried to pick up the pieces left behind and move on."

I can't believe the story I'm hearing. But he's not done.

"I eventually told my brother and sister because they could tell something was wrong. My parents travel a lot. I don't see them as often, and I don't think they noticed."

"Oh, I get that," I say quietly.

He doesn't appear to have heard me, and he continues. "I was so fucking angry at her. At William. He accused me of so many things on that phone call, half of them I've forgotten. But some of them I'll never forget because they were true. I didn't love her. I didn't treat her like a priority, but I was going to marry her anyway."

He stands up suddenly, pacing back and forth in the small elevator, his anger making it feel smaller than it is.

"Yes, I was a shitty boyfriend and fiancé, but no one put a gun to her head when I asked her to marry me. She talked incessantly about what our lives would be like when we were married. It's not like I was off cheating on her with her fucking best friend. Why am I the villain?” he asks, but I know he’s not talking to me.

“I'd known her my whole life, but I realized after she died that I hadn't really known her at all. Her friends who spoke at her funeral told stories about her that I'd never heard. I didn't know that she loved to restore antiques. I had no clue that she hated the smell of coffee. I didn't know anything other than she was supposed to be my wife, she was pretty, and a decent lay."

I gasp, shocked at the crude words, but also because I understand that kind of loathing.

"Maybe I'm an asshole. But I'm not a fucking liar or a cheat. She cheated on me with my best friend. She never tried to get to know me either. She was as complicit as I was, but because she died, I'm the one who ruined her life. Never mind that she died while on vacation with the man who I thought of as a brother. He told me he hated me, you know."

He looks at me then. "I'm still angry at them, but not as much. I only wish it hadn't taken her dying for me to learn the truth."

"And it's made me unequivocal in my current relationships. I don't play games, and I'm honest, even if the truth is uncomfortable."

I frown up at him.

"Are you in a relationship?" I ask him, surprised at how the prospect of that bothers me.

"No, not now. I've been in a couple since she died. But nothing serious. I've been busy, and our circle is small. It's impossible to meet someone who didn't know her. I can't imagine being with anyone like her again. I don't hate her or William. But I recognize what a disservice it was to not be honest with everyone and admit that I didn't want to marry her. That I didn't try to get to know her, that I didn't give the relationship the attention it deserves. So now, I act when I feel compelled to and do my best to be honest. And I demand the same from anyone who I get to know. There’s no point if we can't be at least that."

I look down at my hands and shake my head.

I can only stare at him in wonder. I have no idea what it must be like to make peace with your demons. To be able to tell your truth so easily. I never could.

He drops down to sit beside me again, and I can feel his eyes on me, but I can't make myself look up. "Do you think I'm a monster? For being so cold about it?" he asks when I don't say anything.

I continue gazing at my hands. "I have my own private investigation company. I spend a lot of time tracking the digital footprints left by men and women who are suspected of cheating on their spouses. I’ve seen everything."

His lips quirk, and he stares at me in amazement.

“What?” I ask. “What did I say?”

“You’re a private investigator?” he asks, like I just said I jumped out of planes for a living.

“Yes, and I build security systems. Anyway, no questions, right?” I say.

He rolls his eyes, and I continue.

“I admire you, actually. And you're not the bad guy in that scenario.” His eyes turn skeptical and I concede a little. “Fine, you were a shitty boyfriend."

"I was," he affirms.

"But she could have broken up with you any time. Despite whatever expectations your families had, this is the twenty-first century. She sounds like she had an education and her own income, so why did she lead you on? Why did she cheat on you instead of telling you how she felt? None of that makes sense to me at all." I shake my head in bewilderment and look at him.

He expels a large breath and then smiles at me. His lips are quirked in disbelief, but his eyes are giddy.

"You know? This was a great idea. I hadn't said any of that out loud before. Not even to my siblings because they all knew her, too. Everyone was heartbroken over her death. So, I kept it to myself."

We fall into silence again, lost in our thoughts. I can't believe how similar his story sounds to mine, at least the part about not telling anyone.

"I went on our honeymoon,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t really want me to hear him.

My head snaps back, and I stare are him. "Yeah, you said. But now that I know the full story, it’s really fucking weird."

He laughs self-deprecatingly. “I’d planned this lavish week at a resort in Italy. I knew it was a place she wanted to visit. And then I found out it's where she'd been when she died. When the travel agent called and asked if I wanted to cancel it, I almost did. I hate Italy. Especially in the summer. It's too fucking hot, and all the food has cheese in it. But I went anyway, just to spite her."

"Oh my God, you’re a masochist." I laugh at him.

"Maybe..." He chuckles. "My family thought I was grieving, but by then I was just pissed. They didn't say anything, and then I was glad. But now I wish they had because it was a nightmare. I was miserable. The resort was crawling with nothing but happy couples. Everything reminded me of what a failure I'd been as a partner. How much I'd lost. What I'd probably never have. That set me back in a major way. It was only when I came back home and her mother brought a box of her belongings that she thought I'd want that I finally got over any guilt I'd felt. There was a stack of letters in a little box she'd written ‘From my Love’ on. Her mother had assumed they were from me. But I knew they weren't because I'd never written her any letters."

He pauses and closes his eyes, letting his head rest on the wall of the elevator. "And maybe this will make me an asshole, and I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead. But she was such a bitch."

This last word was said with so much relish that if it wasn't all so fucked up, I might have laughed. Instead, I sit and let the silence wash over me. I think of everything I want to say to him. I don't think he's an asshole at all. He got involved with the wrong woman.

After a few minutes, he nudges me slightly with his shoulder.

"I feel like I took a shower after being lost in some jungle for six months. I feel clean. I needed to get that off my chest. So, thanks. You're crazy and rude, but you were right," he laughs, and I can hear his relief.

I nudge him back, but his little dig doesn’t bother me at all. He's smiling, and this time it's reaching his eyes. I force myself not to stare and look down at the ground.

“Well, it's your turn. And unless you're about to tell me that someone you know died too, I think it should be an easier story to hear than what you had to listen to."

And at those words, all of my bravado and conviction leave me.