He says my name like a prayer, like it’s his salvation. The vowels of my name sound slippery in his accent, almost dangerous. He tucks a stray curl behind my ear and gives me that look. No one has ever been able to resist that look, I think, before today.

I lean back, pulling my hands away from his. There is a question in his watercolor eyes that I am afraid to answer.

“We need to talk,” I say, but instead of coming out cool, calm and collected, I sound like I’ve taken in some helium. His eyebrows are threatening to go vertical and the butterflies in my stomach have now become full-blown bats.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and the equation of his tremulous voice and liquid eyes results in a paralyzing wave of nausea.

I twist the ring around on my finger, stalling. He wears a matching gold band on his hand, too. Twin symbols of our union. I just hope it will be strong enough to weather this.

I take a deep breath again and look up again. He’s still waiting patiently.

“Honey, my mom wants to move in with us.”