“Should we tell them about the night we met?” Graham whispered, his breath warm on my neck. I felt the heat of his hand as it moved dangerously up my leg under the blanket.

“I think... I think we save that for after we’ve made it official and there’s a document keeping them from disowning me,” I responded, struggling to get the words out as his hand continued on its path toward my zipper.

“Yeah?” He twisted his fingers around the copper circle and undid the button easily as we both stared forward. Through the fire, his parents’ faces were blurred as they began to tag-team the story, attempting to finish each other’s sentences in a way that would be endearing had they gotten any of them right. Or if they actually liked each other.

He slid his thick hand into my underwear and I moved a little farther down the couch, resting my feet on the firepit’s stone base and bending my knees so no one could see our movements under the blanket. I couldn’t say anything and risk it coming out as a series of breathless moans, so I kept my mouth shut, resting my head on Graham’s shoulder and breathing into him as his fingers moved.

That’s when Veronica appeared in front of the fire out of nowhere, phone pointed toward us like a gun, flash already on. We froze and she smiled slyly for a beat before tilting her head and saying, “You guys look so cute. Let me get a pic.” She adjusted the angle. “It’s perfect for your wedding slideshow,” she added. “Smile,” she said, and I could have sworn I saw her wink.

We looked into the camera and obeyed, my breath still catching, his fingers still in my jeans. And it became my favorite photo of us. The one on our wedding website. The one on the back of our save-the-dates. The one that looks perfect but hides our dirty little secret.

I take the frame in my hands and look closely at us one last time: his elated smile, my flushed cheeks, the light of the fire creating a natural glow around us. As I pack my things and initiate my Out of Office, I slip the frame into my purse, next to my notebook and the fraying copy of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl I’d read at least ten times. I lift from my office chair and step behind it, tucking it neatly under the fingerprint-less glass desk, and then I look at my space: a sleeping computer, a Post-it with the password, a white pencil holder home to three black BICs. A gifted pumpkin one day away from rotting.

That’s it. The absolute bare minimum.

I wave at Lena as I walk past her office—“Seven thirty, Le Coucou.” She’s on the phone and offers me a head nod in return. I’ll be there, she mouths.