Chapter 3

For my birthday that year, Ethan finally promised we would spend the evening alone.

When I came home after class, the apartment was full of pink balloons. An enormous bouquet of pink roses stood in the living room, and a cake waited on the dining table.

The sight made every recent disappointment feel embarrassingly small.

I had never wanted much. One thoughtful birthday. One evening that belonged only to us. One sign that, for once, he had thought of me first.

If Ethan cared enough to do that, I could forgive the rest.

He said he would be home by seven.

At six forty-five, I cooked two steaks and set the table.

At eight, the steaks were cold.

I called him. No answer.

I tried again. Still nothing.

After another ten minutes, I called Lena.

Her phone rang until the call dropped.

The city lights came on beyond the windows while I sat among all those pink balloons, staring at an untouched cake.

At last, my phone rang.

Ethan sounded exhausted. "Lena had appendicitis. She's in surgery."

For one guilty second, fear replaced everything else.

"Is she okay?"

"The doctor thinks so. I'm sorry, Flora. I probably can't make it back. You–"

A nurse called his name. Ethan said, "Get some sleep," and hung up.

I stood in the middle of the apartment for a long time.

Then I scraped both steaks into the trash.

I left the cake on the table until midnight. At first, I told myself I was keeping it for Ethan. Then one o'clock came, then two, and the frosting began to sag under the warm apartment lights.

I took down the balloons one by one. By three in the morning, the room looked ordinary again except for the roses.

I sat on the kitchen floor and made excuses for a man who hadn't called until hours after he failed to come home.

That was the humiliating part. Even alone, I was still forgiving him.

At dawn, I packed a suitcase.