The woman standing there looked confused more than guilty.
She was maybe thirty, barefoot, holding one of those tiny hotel coffees in a paper cup.
Before I could even speak, she said, “Oh thank God. Are you his wife?”
That threw me completely.
My husband was in the bathroom throwing up.
Not drunk. Sick.
Apparently he’d spent the whole flight sweating and shaking, then passed out in the hotel lobby. The woman worked for the resort and helped get him upstairs after he kept insisting he needed to “fix something before she gets here.”
I noticed his suitcase open on the bed.
Inside was a jewelry box.
And underneath it, a printed email from my oncologist.
I’d had bloodwork done two weeks earlier after fainting at work, but the office told me results would take longer because of insurance issues. My husband must’ve called pretending to be me.
The email mentioned “urgent follow-up imaging.”
That idiot had canceled his own birthday trip and given away his seat because he thought I might have cancer and didn’t want me finding out alone in another country.
I sat on the hotel hallway floor crying before he even came out of the bathroom.