I stood up. Slowly. I walked, without speaking, across the front of the ballroom to the exit door to the left of the DJ booth. I did not take off my shoes. I did not grab my bouquet. I did not say anything to August. I walked out. In the hallway, in my wedding dress, I broke into the kind of sob that you cannot control — the kind that comes from somewhere lower than your chest, the kind that folds you in half. I stood against the wall. My sister came out of the ballroom within thirty seconds. She put her arms around me. She said, "Ellie. Ellie. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I said, "Get August. I need to talk to him." She nodded. She went back inside. Four minutes later, August came out of the ballroom. His face was white. He closed the ballroom door behind him. He stood in front of me. He did not touch me. He said — and this is the sentence I am going to remember forever, for reasons both good and devastating — he said, "Ellie. Is it true?" I said, "Yes." He said, "Did you decide not to tell me because you thought I would leave you?" I said, "I was going to tell you on our honeymoon. I promise. Cecile was the only person who knew." August looked at me. He said, in a voice I had never heard him use before, "I need a minute."