I sat back in my chair, fuming, and at the same time, the guilt and anguish in his eyes was hard to watch. He already felt bad. He already knew it was wrong. He was already sorry. I was angry with him for all of those things, too. I deserved a guilt-free moment of anger, and he couldn’t even give me that.

I covered my face, unable to finish my meal.

“Do you want me to just get the check?” he asked, sounding miserable.

I could only nod.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Everything was so good. How did we get here?”

Once we finished breakfast, we returned to the room, packed, and then made the jaunt to the lobby for checkout. The entrance was abuzz with activity—people coming and going, employees busy with guests.

“We should have a car waiting outside,” Taylor said to the desk clerk.

“All right,” she said. “You’re all set. I hope you enjoyed your stay at The Ritz-Carlton and that you come back to visit us soon.”

“Thank you,” Taylor said.

He carried our bags outside and greeted the same driver who had collected me from the airport.

Taylor stared out the window for most of the drive to Charlotte Amalie, and he only spoke when necessary once we reached the airport.

“Two hours early,” I said, reading my watch.

Taylor sat next to me at our gate, but he otherwise acted as if I were just another traveler in the terminal. An airplane headed for New York was boarding. We were so early that the monitor above the desk didn’t reflect our flight.

I checked my watch several times, curious if he was worried about his family or me or both and if I should try to talk to him about it or leave him to his thoughts.

An infant squalled somewhere behind us, and like so many other times when I’d heard a newborn, something twinged in my chest. Families were all around us, exasperated mothers and fathers trying their best to keep their tired, bored toddlers entertained.

I wondered if Taylor would ever watch children with longing the way I did, if he’d even have to because of our rough start, and if the weekend in St. Thomas was the beginning of our end.

“Taylor,” I said.

He pulled his finger from his mouth, spitting out a hangnail. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to ignore you. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Do you want to talk about Travis?” I asked.

“No, I want to talk about us. Are you just waiting? Are you going to drop a bomb on me when we get home?”

He looked at me, dread in his eyes. “Are you?”