When the Truth is Told

She was the love of his life. Which was why the most devastating part about Ryan Morrison discovering that his fiancée was cheating on him was not that he found out one week before their wedding. It was not the $80K her parents spent on the reception at her father’s private country club or the thought of confronting George Van Sandt’s wrath if the wedding got cancelled. It wasn’t even the cheating itself.

It was that Ryan felt relieved.

There—buried under four anniversaries at the same upscale French restaurant whose menu he couldn’t read, five carefully Instagrammed international vacations, countless chaotic holidays, and a love that he swore transformed him—there, underneath all that, was a shaky deep breath releasing itself.

Ryan set the phone back exactly where she’d left it on the table. When Celine returned—Rita Hayworth reincarnated in red—she smiled at him.

They were mid-discussion about their honeymoon. Barcelona. Her idea.

Ryan’s heart stuttered. He focused on his filet de boeuf bordelaise, Celine’s favorite for him from Le Mensonge. His mind, though—the questions came all at once. Since when? How serious? Who? And—

How had Mark managed to insert himself into their conversation five times already?

“Did you hear what I said?”

No, Ryan didn’t hear what she said. He was too busy glaring at—

“Mark.” He sipped his Bordeaux, detecting notes of blackberry. “Helping out.”

“Yes, your best friend Mark. His condo renovations aren’t done yet.”

Maybe Ryan misread the text. Because cancelling their wedding would be suicide. He’d be indebted to her parents. Homeless, because their apartment was hers. Jobless, because he worked for her father.

“So it’s fine if he came over?”

Mark. Coming over. Tonight. Why again?

“To help me with our reception slideshow. Remember?”

Mm-hmm. Except Mark, unlike his younger sister Hailey, was useless with anything remotely basic, barely pulling off Ryan’s bachelor party in Vegas, the group almost getting arrested because of him. So why couldn’t Ryan help?

“It’s a surprise.”

Lying. She had to be.

After the main course, Celine vanished again.

Then Ryan—compulsively punctual, perfect driving record, the responsible oldest of three who finished a business degree he loathed just to please his father—snatched his fiancée’s phone once more.

He needed to know if, for her, it was love.

“Miss you, babe,” the text said, from “Jolene”. “Let’s meet when you’re done there. Your place? Mine’s still a mess from renovations. Can you deal with him, or should I?”

Him—Ryan.

And Jolene, like the song? Code name?

“So it’s set,” Celine was saying but Ryan barely looked up. “Mark’s coming over once we’re done here. Ryan? Where are you going?”

The love of his life. The most important person. How could he be so wrong about her?

And Mark! That insufferable piece of—

“I have to fix Mom’s sink.”

Not a lie. She asked two weeks ago.

“Now?”

“You can take a taxi, right?”

He dropped literal cash in front of her. Like she—Celine Van Sandt—was poor.

Outside his childhood home, fifteen minutes later, Ryan still couldn’t shake the feeling.

That the worst part wasn’t losing her. It was that he felt—

“Hey!” Hailey opened the door. Almost instantly, his heart settled, the same way it did years ago at a grocery store.

Why was she here?

“I was supposed to stay at my brother’s, but his condo’s ground zero for renovations. Typical Mark. Awful with timing.”

Awful, period.

“What,” she said, “not excited to see me?”

After—like, shortly after—when…what he called D-Day…happened, at twenty-four, no direction after post-grad, all Ryan wanted to do was hold his dad’s hand, like when he was young and they would stroll down the beach, picking out shells together. Shortly after D-Day, there was an incident on aisle 4 of Hudson’s Grocers. He and Jenna, aimless, like ghosts. Then Hailey, Ryan’s car keys jiggling in her fingers, appeared from behind. “You don’t need five types of pasta,” she said, taking over their cart.

“Earth to Ryan.”

Hailey Silva—tanned with sun-kissed hair, clad in a white flowy blouse and faded blue jeans in the middle of February in Boston—waved both hands in front of his face.

“You look like your life just got cancelled,” she said.

Ryan reached out for a hug, a gravitational pull too strong to resist. Same as five years ago on his back porch, hours after he buried his father.

His heartbeat then, like now, was steady. Calm, even.

Calm.

Yes.

That was the word.

#

Truth be told, the version of Ryan Morrison that was required to love Celine Van Sandt—only child, Yale graduate, head of PR at her parents’ company, and a travel influencer with too many followers—was, in Ryan’s opinion, the best version of himself.

If not for Celine, Ryan would never have tried things he wasn’t interested in. Like Broadway plays (didn’t hate them), wine tastings where he pretended to detect “notes of blackberry” (like an expert), and bel canto operas at the Boston Lyric Opera (no comment). But because of her, he was well-rounded. Even spoke Spanish (un poco).

Did he love working for her father instead of pursuing his own interests, like, say, writing a novel? (Dead end, per George's unsolicited opinion.) Did he always appreciate how Celine picked out his clothes, created vacation itineraries that left little room for happy accidents, curated and photographed every random moment twenty times?

Ryan, crouched under his parents’ kitchen sink, cursed under his breath, not at all understanding what was wrong with it—i.e., the sink—though his breath, too, might have had a problem, because he should have been hyperventilating at the thought of Celine and Mark in their apartment doing…slideshows. Instead, he pretended to be a sink expert in case Hailey—

If the wedding got cancelled, Ryan had no idea what kind of person he’d be. Besides destitute. And a mendicant.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

Hailey. Behind him.

“I know exactly what to ask AI in order to know what I should be doing.”

Smooth.

Hailey laughed, hopping on the counter, like she was home. She was on that exact same spot, four years ago, equally tipsy as him, she claimed, when she pulled him closer, the night of Jenna’s grad party, an exact year after their father’s—

“C’mere,” she said. “I have pictures.”

His dream was her reality. Galápagos Islands. Volunteering with a marine conservation group, documenting endangered species as a freelance photographer, her work occasionally featured in small environmental journals and travel magazines. The perfume she wore—floral, vanilla—hadn’t changed.

After the twentieth photo of a lumbering giant tortoise half-submerged in a pool of volcanic mud, its ancient eyes fixed somewhere beyond the frame, Hailey asked, “What’s wrong?”

Her volume had dropped.

“Why do you think something’s wrong?”

“You’re making me work for it?”

“No idea what you mean.”

“So you and Celine…everything’s fine there? Still marrying her?”

Did she know?

“That’s the plan,” he said.

“That’s not an answer.”

Last time she said that, it was the night of his father’s funeral. While friends and family suffocated him with their support and lasagna, Hailey…well, she said—

“You could leave.”

“What?”

“Go somewhere. A few days. A week.”

“I haven’t slept in 72 hours, Hailey. Be serious.”

“I am. You should go.”

“And do what?”

“Whatever you want. Something that isn’t this.”

“That’s not an option.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not.”

“That’s not an answer, Ryan. C’mon, your dad just died. After watching him deteriorate for years, the moment you’ve been dreading finally arrived. Look, you’re allowed to mourn, is all I’m saying.”

“Exactly. My dad’s dead. Jenna’s. Cole’s. My mom lost the love of her life. I helped her decide to pull the plug, remember? Leaving them now is not an option,” he repeated.

“I didn’t say forever—”

“Every second I’m not taking care of my family is a second I’m not there for them.”

“Ry, that’s unsustainable. It’s your loss, too. You’re allowed to be selfish in your grief.”

Ryan blinked.

“Continuing with the original plan of marrying her is not an answer?” His gaze wandered to Hailey’s necklace. “Isn’t it a yes?”

“Not if there’s doubt behind it.”

As if he could lie to her. Like when he pulled away from her, from his selfish moment that night, before anyone could walk in on them, and said, “That’s not what I want.”

“What about you?” He pivoted. “Any fellas?”

“Fellas?” Hailey’s laugh, intoxicating like her perfume, filled the room. “You’re so old, dude.”

“By only four years.”

“Yeah, okay, Grandpa.”

“Yes or no?”

“Um, none of your business?”

“What, we’re not friends?”

“We’re not friends,” Hailey said, tugging him closer to her where she sat on his kitchen counter, several drinks in, Jenna’s karaoke as their soundtrack.

“Mm, this is reckless.” He held her at the waist, rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling.

“As reckless as the night of your dad’s funeral?”

Ryan couldn’t have survived last year without her. Without her late-night texts. Eccentric “grief and joy” playlists. Ridiculous memes. God, the memes.

“You’re right.” He hovered. “We’re not friends.”

His selfishness then was not the careful kind that tiptoed in the dark.

“Slow down, you crazy child.” She giggled. “Your sister’s right there.”

“Butchering that exact classic from Mr. Billy Joel. Too drunk with your ditzy group to notice us.”

“Um, hello. Ditzy?”

“Continue in my room?”

“How drunk are you?”

“Not at all. A little. I can handle my alcohol, promise. Last year you said be selfish, right? Well, I’m being selfish. You gave me the year to grieve. Now I’m done. Because when my dad died, he took with him every trace of confidence I used to have in choosing my own joy. I mean, joy—what even is that? But you…just graduated, leaving for Ecuador in a few weeks with a job already lined up. Meanwhile, I’m like a tortoise in your islands. Trapped. Slow.” He sighed. “I should’ve acted on this—on us—before it was too late. It scares me when I can’t control what comes next.” He leaned in again. “Right now, at least I know this is what I want.”

She steadied him, two small hands on his chest.

Then a silence he couldn’t decipher.

Then Hailey pursed her lips. Pushed him off. Jumped down.

“You’re right,” she said. “This is reckless. Even for me.”

Hailey took out a postcard from her leather camera bag.

“I saw this one day. Made me think of you. I wanted to mail it like the others—Anyway, this one’s my favorite. Had to give it personally.”

On the back was the spirit of Billy.

Slow down…the tortoises wait for you.

Ryan smiled. “Thanks.”

“And if you ever wanted to talk about Celine…or Mark…I’m here. Obviously, being chronically single, I give useless relationship advice. But I can drink with you until 2 a.m. I make a mean canelazo.”

Her blue eyes, specks of green there, were like the ocean that soothed him when he was a boy.

“What do you know?” he asked.

She held his gaze for a few seconds. Then hopped off.

“I have to,” she said, “uh, help Jenna with…karaoke. I heard Cole is home later. Hope it’s not awkward I’m here.”

“Shouldn’t have dated him then.”

“A drunken mistake of a kiss so unremarkable I barely remember it. If Jenna hadn’t caught us, you’d all have forgotten about it by now.”

“You knew he’s always liked you.”

“It’s been two years. He must be over me.”

“Like you’re someone a guy can easily get over?”

“I absolutely am,” Hailey said seriously. “Took you, what, two months after I left before finding Celine?”

Ryan opened his mouth—

“Oye, en el amor,” she said, “fresco nomás.”

“You broke his heart,” he called after her.

She stopped to look at him, her brief silence still indecipherable after all these years.

“Good catching up, Ry.”

After D-Day, Ryan grew up fast. His success was his father’s last wish. Enter Celine. His mom loved her. Claimed his father would have, too.

With her, he was the best version of himself. A man who sacrificed his happiness for others. Stable. Dutiful. Selfless.

But every stolen minute with Hailey was a moment Ryan remembered how to breathe on his own.

If she knew about—no, they were friends. She’d tell the truth.

“Sweetheart, have you tried Hailey’s seco de pollo?” his mom asked from the doorway. “Why are your father’s tools out? Didn’t I mention I got that sink fixed already?”

#

Ryan didn’t read the text. How she got his new number, to begin with, a mystery.

Four months to the day since cancelling the wedding. Planned this…thing…he was doing now. Still, Celine Van Sandt lived rent-free in his mind.

He turned the phone face down on the metal table. A small act of resistance.

Months ago, when he planned this with the help of the book in his hands—the latest Lonely Planet Ecuador & the Galápagos Islands—he hadn’t fully imagined the reality. For a while, he searched the world for a quiet place. Where he could think. Maybe write. Or draw because, who knew, after some online classes, that he had a talent for urban sketching. But he kept circling back to Ecuador. Not because of—

The reality, though, was loud. Hot. Nothing like home. Just constant movement. Life everywhere. Emotions expressed in a language he was still learning—a man dissatisfied over a fruit, or maybe its price? Children giggling as they escaped their mother’s tight grip. A dog barking at nothing. Or everything.

Ryan leaned back in his chair, its legs uneven against the pavement. He stared at his teal leather journal, a gift left quietly by—

Maybe he could sketch. Or—glancing at A Room of One’s Own—spend time with Virginia? Her controlled meandering style was like a boat that gently rocked him. Celine hated her.

A woman with nothing to say and was pretentious about it.

No, Celine was the past. Remember?

But then the note he left her…Oof.

Scribbled hastily on a Post-It pad by the front door, hours after talking to Hailey in his mom’s kitchen. At 2 a.m., he snuck into their—no, Celine’s—apartment, saw Mark’s shoes, Mark’s coat. Heard them, clearly passionate about…the surprise wedding slideshow.

I know everything.

Cryptic as hell. Then Ryan took the phone off the hook, so to speak, and disappeared for a while.

His mom—a retired event planner—saved him. An administrative juggernaut when it came to canceling weddings and planning spontaneous vacations. She handled everything, even George Van Sandt’s wrath.

“I never liked Celine. Your father would’ve never approved.”

Then she said something about finally putting himself—i.e., Ryan—first.

Moms, he thought. Always our biggest fans if we allowed them.

His phone buzzed again but his empanada consumed his attention. He wasn’t used to this. To discovering what he liked. What he hated.

Ryan scanned his surroundings again, trying to decide what to sketch. A wire rack—filled with postcards clipped in uneven rows, edges curled from the humidity—stood outside the shop he had just left. He got up without thinking.

It was the same washed-out blue. Same oversized tortoise, frozen mid-step like it had all the time in the world.

He stared at the card, too long, until he reached out. Turned it over.

The other side—blank.

Of course.

He released a shaky breath, heart stuttering—

“Tourists love that one.”

Hailey. Behind him.

“Where are you going?”

Caught in his old bedroom, frantically searching. Everything from his high school years preserved here like a museum. Which means the book was—yep, top shelf with Steinbeck and Vonnegut.

“I don’t know. I don’t care. Five years ago, you told me to just go somewhere. Well, now I’m doing it.”

“You’re getting married!”

“It’s over. I’m about to tell her it’s over.” Ryan met Hailey’s eyes. “But you knew that.”

“It wasn’t my place—”

“How long?” He clutched the outdated Lonely Planet in his hand, a gift from his dad for his sixteenth birthday. “How long have you known?”

“Recently, like, just before flying back? Mark visited. He left his phone on the table at dinner. I didn’t think—how could he do that to you? How could she? I gave him hell for it, I promise, but I also promised him that I wouldn’t say a word. He said he’d confess before the wedding. Or I would’ve done it. You have to believe me.”

“You’re my friend,” Ryan said sadly. “You were. I thought you were.”

“Figures.” He kept staring at the postcard. “A bit on the nose, right?”

A small laugh. “Yeah.”

Ryan glanced over then.

Hailey stood with her arms loosely crossed, sunburned across the bridge of her nose, in a blue dress—the same shade as the Great Blue Hole in Belize. And the silver turtle-shaped pendant, set with a sapphire—his gift before she left that first time, years ago—still rested just below her collarbone.

For a minute, only the dog nearby made a sound.

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “I know that doesn’t mean much when your life’s been upended—”

“Thanks,” he said, suddenly aware of how close she was.

Her scent teased him, reminding him of home.

Maybe this was home now. Or not.

“Are you staying?” she finally said, breaking their silence.

Ryan exhaled—something he was still getting used to. And liked quite a lot.

He looked down the street, at nothing in particular—the dog, the children, the fruits, where no answers lay, nothing meaningful, nobody expecting anything from him—before meeting Hailey’s ocean blue eyes.

“Honestly,” he said, sliding the postcard back into the rack, “I have no idea.”

For the first time, he enjoyed it, actually.

Not knowing what came next.