On the first day of our contract marriage, he handed me a prenuptial agreement.
Clause One: We would not share a bedroom.
Clause Two: We would not interfere in each other’s private lives.
Clause Three: We would not reveal the truth about our relationship to anyone.
I signed it, thinking: Great. We each get what we want, and we absolutely will not fall in love.
Three months later, I realized I’d been wrong about three things:
First, he had never slept in the spare bedroom.
Second, he had read every entry in the encrypted memo app on my phone.
Third, the encrypted USB drive in his drawer contained recordings of every performance I’d given over the past three years.
And my biggest mistake was this:
I wrote an entire album cursing him for being heartless.
But every song turned out to be a love song.
