Chapter 2

He finally came back to bed hours later, well past two a.m. He reached for me, pulling me into his side. He didn’t notice the coldness of my skin, or the way I flinched. His snores started within seconds, his warm breath on my forehead. I eased away, turning my back to him. My own phone screen lit up intermittently through the night. Texts from my mom, my sister, old college friends, even a generic e-card from my bank. But nothing from him. I didn’t sleep. At breakfast, Ethan squinted at the dark circles under my eyes. “Rough night?” I didn’t answer. I just watched him, meticulously dressed, hair perfectly styled. Ready to play the hero for someone else. I couldn’t stop myself. One last, pointless attempt. “It’s my birthday today, Ethan.” His hand, holding a piece of toast, paused mid-air. “I told you, the money’s there. Buy whatever you want.” The eggs, the coffee, the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window – it all suddenly tasted like ash. I looked at him, a small, humorless smile playing on my lips. I watched him until he started to fidget, a flicker of guilt, then annoyance, crossing his face. He managed a strained patience. “Sarah, don’t start.” “Chloe’s different,” he said, his voice laced with that familiar, unbearable sympathy. “She only has me.” Chloe Thompson. Her parents, her entire family, lost in that senseless campus shooting when she was just twelve. The destructive power of a childhood bond – I’d learned that lesson the hard way five years ago. If only I hadn’t been so blinded by the Ethan I thought he was. I should have just let Chloe have him at the altar.

That day, at our wedding, during the kiss. Chloe, a vision in a white sundress, stood at the edge of the guests, tears streaming down her face. A picture of fragile beauty. “Ethan,” she’d choked out, her voice carrying through the sudden silence. “Are you leaving me too?” The hands cupping my face recoiled as if they’d touched a live wire. Ethan’s best man, Mark Jenkins, quickly intervened, gently guiding a sobbing Chloe away. Ethan had visibly relaxed, turning back to me with a forced smile, his eyes trying to convey a depth of emotion that wasn’t there. But the kiss, when it finally came, was brief. A peck. So rushed it left me feeling hollow. Later, I began to understand the true force of a childhood sweetheart, re-emerged. Our wedding night, Ethan spent hours on the balcony, on the phone. He wasn’t trying to hide it then. Whatever he said, the response from the other end was just soft, persistent crying. Ethan had looked at me, his eyes full of helplessness and an apology I didn’t yet understand. He said Chloe was innocent, emotionally stuck at twelve years old. At first, hearing her story, I felt for her too. When Ethan went to see her, he’d often take me along. I even bought her little things I thought she might like. But I soon sensed her hostility. Once, Ethan was away on a business trip. He texted, asking me to check on Chloe. Said she had a high fever and wouldn’t go to the doctor. I was swamped at work, but I went. It was pouring rain. When she opened the door, her face fell, disappointment stark and undisguised. The small apartment was littered with takeout containers and empty wine bottles. And Chloe? She was wearing a nearly transparent, cream-colored silk nightgown. I understood everything in that instant. She wasn’t sick. She was horny.