The best day of his life, the best night of his life, had turned to shit. Layla reached for his hand, as he reached for Pippa. He put the dog on her leash and went downstairs for a walk. He needed some space, a moment of calm, to think through what she said, and everything leading up to it. I can’t marry you. . . . He took Pippa to a small area of grass and watched her piss all over it. It seemed fitting. The rest of what Layla said—in a month—didn’t matter. The first four words were what mattered. Her doubts were what mattered. In a few hours, they were supposed to fly out to see his mother, so he could introduce Layla as his fiancée. Now he wasn’t even sure she was anymore. Layla approached quietly from behind. “If it’s not because of the campaign, why are you in such a hurry to marry me?” He turned to face her, still in the ice blue dress, her feet bare. “It has nothing to do with the campaign. I told you that. I just want to be with you, to start our life together.”
