“Both.”
He leaned against the doorway.
Then he smiled.
“Come on. I found a bakery that makes enormous cinnamon pastries.”
I laughed.
“Is that your plan for the day?”
“That’s the beginning of my plan.”
I put down my coffee.
“Lead the way.”
***
The trip continued.
We spent several days exploring islands, taking boat rides, and eating meals that lasted longer than either of us expected.
Sometimes we talked about the wedding.
Sometimes we didn’t.
Daniel never told me I had to forgive my family.
He also never suggested that I should cut them off permanently.
He simply listened.
One evening in Santorini, we sat outside a small restaurant overlooking the water.
The sun was setting.
The sky had turned pale gold.
Daniel was studying the menu.
I was watching a couple at the next table help their toddler eat pasta.
The little girl dropped a noodle onto her dress.
Her father laughed and wiped it away.
I smiled.
Then I thought about Khloe’s baby.
A girl.
My niece.
I hadn’t allowed myself much time to think about that part of the wedding.
I’d been too angry about the smoke, the credit card, and the stolen-honeymoon announcement.
