At the accusation his hands fly apart, flung wide, and for a moment he stares at her in wordless exasperation. He rubs his face with a hand. “Bring you here? I don't even know...” Where the bathroom is, or he'd be locked in it. “Alright, fine. You don't know where my wedding ring is and it's nobody's dog. Okay.” He's losing patience, but refrains from rolling his eyes.

Jupe flings off the covers—maybe that's too aggressive, but by the time he has the thought it's too late—and climbs out of bed, banging his leg on the nightstand and setting the little framed picture there wobbling. Automatically he reaches to steady it—and freezes.

It's them. Smiling in each other's arms on some kind of old-fashioned boat, sun-dappled water all around them. Jupe picks up the picture and sinks back into the bed. Absently rubbing at his shin, he pores over the photograph for the detail that reveals it as a fake.