I lower onto the edge of the padded mattress and silently slide open the bottom drawer of Graham’s nightstand. Inside is a pool of pens; a box of ancient condoms; an envelope of dirty Polaroids of me that I’d given him before a month-long business trip to keep him company; and, exactly where I remembered it, a small blackcurrant Grether’s Pastilles tin.

I open the box, about the size of the palm of my hand, and pick up the joint inside, my fingers like tweezers lifting it to my nose and taking a long, deep sniff.

“You’re back.” Graham’s raspy sleep voice is barely audible over the sound of him twisting under the heavy blanket to face me. I drop the joint—and the tin—to the floor.

“I didn’t expect you to be sleeping,” I say, bending to plant a kiss on his prickly cheek. “It’s still early.”

“I must have been watching Maddow,” he says, a joke he makes whenever he needs to justify a nap. I laugh out of obligation. He worms upright, resting on the plush headboard. “How was it?” he asks, meaning did they miss me?

“Fine.” I pair my answer with a shrug for emphasis. “The writer’s excited for Vermont. She’s never covered a forest wedding. That’s what she kept calling it. At least six times.”

He laughs. “I mean, that’s technically what it is.”

“Yeah, but that makes it seem like I’ll be barefoot in a flower crown. Not that I paid forty thousand dollars to have a wood floor and fairy lights installed in the middle of a clearing in the woods.”

“My mother paid,” he corrects with a wink. It’s meant to be in jest but it feels demeaning. His family paying for the wedding is something that, they’ve reminded me time and time again, is usually the responsibility of the bride’s family. As if money had any value to them. As if paying a few grand to decorate the forest and kill our planet a little wasn’t just pennies. Something they write a check for without thinking twice. The rich never fail to make sure the poor feel grateful for their existence.

He reaches his arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him. I shake off my reluctance and relax into his chest, the thick blanket like a much-needed wall between us. “Now, if you look over there—” He raises his voice, like a tour guide at the Capitol, and points toward the corner of the room. “You’ll see that I am, in fact, all packed.” His hands find their way under my dress, moving toward the back clasp of my bra.

“Where’s the suit?” I ask. His body stiffens; his hand drops to the bed. “You’re kidding,” I say, sitting up.

“It’s in the closet,” he says quickly.