NATHAN JANG
I should have known our honeymoon wouldn't be all candlelit dinners and peaceful walks through Tuscan vineyards.
No, because I married Vanessa Belmont—now Vanessa Belmont Jang, a fact she still grins about every time she says it—and where Vanessa goes, chaos follows like an overeager puppy.
Case in point: the two jewel thieves currently fleeing our hotel balcony after my wife gave them her necklace like she was tipping a particularly talented street performer.
I turned to her, ready to deliver the kind of stern, rational lecture that would make any sane person reconsider their life choices. Vanessa, of course, preemptively jammed her finger against my lips.
"Before you start lecturing me about enabling criminals," she said, "just remember that time in Barcelona when you gave that pickpocket kid 50 euros because he 'had honest eyes.'"
My mouth twitched. Damn her. Damn her perfect memory and her ability to weaponize my own questionable decisions against me.
