Chapter 2

Olivia was a whirlwind of perfume and expensive luggage.

"Julian' s favorite cologne is in the side pocket, don' t let me forget," she' d said to herself, not to me.

I was just part of the furniture.

She gave me that superficial kiss, the one that never reached her eyes.

"The car will be delivered tomorrow afternoon, Ethan. Try not to scratch it before I get back."

A small, tight smile.

I just nodded.

The words didn' t matter anymore.

My mind drifted back.

Our first anniversary.

I' d planned everything.

A surprise party at our place, all our friends.

I even found that rare abstract painting she' d wanted for months.

She never showed.

A text message, short and cold: "Something came up. Gift' s in the garage."

The gift was a classic Mustang, a beautiful machine.

My dream car, or so she thought.

Later that night, Sarah, one of her college friends, drunk and sympathetic, showed me Olivia' s private Instagram story.

"Desert drives, festival nights. You and me."

A picture of Olivia, sun-kissed and laughing, arm in arm with Julian at some Coachella-like event.

His arm around her waist, her head on his shoulder.

I confronted her when she finally came home, days later, smelling of campfire and his cologne.

"He just got out of a bad relationship, Ethan," she' d said, waving her hand dismissively.

"I was cheering him up. We're just friends. Stop being so dramatic."

Dramatic.

That was the word she always used when I questioned her connection to Julian.

That was the first time I truly understood.

I wasn't her husband.

I was her placeholder.

Her convenient, understanding, always-there Ethan.

The new car in the garage felt like a bribe.

A very expensive, very shiny bribe to keep quiet.

To keep playing my part.

And I did. For six more years.