The first time my husband laughed at me in public, really laughed in that sharp, cutting way that makes everyone else in the room suddenly fascinated by their plates, I told myself it was a fluke. The seventh time, on our seventh anniversary, I finally believed him. He laughed when he saw the candles.
Not a fond little chuckle, not an embarrassed, “You really went all out, huh?” but a full, unrestrained laugh that bounced off the high ceilings of our Portland dining room and landed squarely on my bare shoulders. I was standing there in a dress I’d bought specifically for tonight—a deep green wrap dress that made my eyes look brighter and my waist look smaller—holding a heavy, steaming dish of coq au vin that had taken me four hours to make. “Jesus Christ, Melissa,” he said, reaching for his phone instead of the wine I’d selected.
“What is this, some Hallmark movie? We’re not twenty anymore.”
