Chapter 2

I hung up before he could reply and immediately blocked his number. Then I turned off my phone completely. The silence in the house was immense, a physical presence. I looked at the elaborate meal I' d prepared-the shrimp étouffée, the jambalaya, the perfectly browned cornbread. It all seemed ridiculous now, a monument to my own foolishness.

Mechanically, I started clearing the table. I scraped the food into Tupperware containers, stacking them neatly in the fridge. I washed the dishes, scrubbing each plate until it gleamed, the repetitive motion a strange comfort. I didn't feel anger, not yet. It was a cold, hollow feeling, the kind you get when you finally accept a truth you've been avoiding for a very long time.

I thought about the past five years. I had given up everything. My dream of opening my own restaurant, my scholarship to Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, my spicy, vibrant Creole cooking that Ethan always complained was "too much." I' d become a line cook at a greasy spoon diner because it was simple, it didn' t demand anything of me, and it didn' t threaten him. I had made myself smaller and smaller to fit into the space he allowed for me.

And for what? For a man who would abandon our anniversary for a weekend with his ex-girlfriend. For a man whose friends still called Sabrina "the one that got away" right to my face.

The next evening, Ethan came home. He walked in cautiously, expecting a storm of tears and accusations. He found me on the couch, calmly eating leftover gumbo from a bowl and watching a movie.

He cleared his throat. "Jo? Are you okay?"

I didn't look at him. "I'm fine."

He stood there awkwardly for a moment, then started his pre-rehearsed speech. "Look, about this weekend... Sabrina was just really lonely. Her influencer deal fell through, and she was having a complete meltdown. I had to be there for her. You know how she is."

I took another bite of gumbo. "Mhm."

My indifference seemed to unnerve him more than any fight could have. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small, flimsy box. "I, uh, got you something. For our anniversary."

He opened it to reveal a cheap, silver-plated bracelet, the kind you buy at a gas station. It probably cost twenty dollars. I thought of the designer handbag he' d bought Sabrina, the one she flaunted in her post.

"Thank you, Ethan," I said, my voice polite and distant. I took the box from him and set it on the coffee table, right next to a stack of magazines. I didn't even bother to take the bracelet out.

He stared at the box, then at me, his face a mixture of confusion and growing frustration. "That's it? You're not even going to put it on?"

"I'll put it on later," I said, turning my attention back to the TV. "I'm watching this."

He let out an exasperated sigh, the sound he always made when he thought I was being difficult. But this wasn't about being difficult. This was about being done. He just didn't know it yet.