Not an “oh no” laugh.
Real laughter.
His laugh.
He was standing at the edge of the pool with his hands raised, already facing his friends as if he’d just scored the decisive point in a game. Two of them were high-fiving him, patting him on the back, and pointing at me as if I were the punchline.
My boyfriend, my husband, was smiling like a child who had just played a prank.
“IT WILL GO VIRAL!” he shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It was perfect!”
For a moment I thought I was going to throw up.
Because the worst part wasn’t the wet dress, nor the ruined makeup, nor the cold water in my hair.
The worst thing was that he wasn’t worried.
He was not sorry.
He wasn’t reaching out to me.
He was celebrating.
The reactions of those around the pool were sudden. Some guests laughed as if they didn’t understand how wrong it was. Others covered their mouths, their eyes wide. Someone muttered, “What the hell?” as if the words had escaped them before they could be polite.
I was still in the water, struggling to keep my dress from dragging me under, and my husband was acting like he’d done something brilliant.
My chest ached with a pain worse than that of a broken heart. It was as if humiliation and betrayal had fused into a single, heavy boulder that had fallen straight into my stomach.
I didn’t cry right away.
I just stared at him.
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