Chapter2

I pulled my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet.

For two weeks, I'd been rehearsing reasonable excuses to stay. I already had a job. Moving overseas cost money. A fresh start could wait.

None of them were the truth.

What I'd really been scared of was what leaving would do to Ethan and me.

Now I packed my old sketchbooks, my laptop, and enough work clothes to get by. Designs I'd once been proud of had sat rolled up in a closet for too long while I built my evenings around his calendar.

My phone lit up on the bed.

Vanessa had posted a screenshot of my text.

Here we go again with the drama. So embarrassing.

The replies were already rolling in.

Another breakup threat? I'm shaking.

She's an office assistant. What exactly is she bringing to the table?

Ethan could have anyone. She should be thankful he even bothers.

I read through them once.

Then I added a reply of my own.

Not a threat. Feel free to stop talking about me now.

Ethan called less than a minute later.

“I told her to delete it.”

“Good.”

“They're idiots, Claire. None of them has any idea what you're capable of. I'll handle it.” His tone gentled. “You know that's not how I see you.”

I folded a sweater and laid it in the case.

“Claire?”

“I'm still here.”

“Then say something.”

I had nothing left to explain. I'd spent three years searching for words he would actually hear. I wasn't going to waste my last night in this city trying again.

He took my silence for giving in.

“It's nearly midnight. Get some rest. Tomorrow's our anniversary—I'll take you to Marlowe's.”

“Ethan—”

“If you really mean it, say it to my face.” His voice hardened. “Three years is worth more than a text.”

My eyes went to the small, empty jewelry box on the dresser.

He still had my mother's locket. The clasp had snapped, and he'd offered to have his jeweler fix it. Twice I'd asked if it was done. Twice he'd told me not yet.

“Fine,” I said. “One conversation. Bring the locket.”

“I will.”

At one o'clock the next afternoon, he texted me the address.

Marlowe's was a tiny bistro I'd mentioned once, a month before. Reservations were booked solid for weeks, but they held a handful of tables for walk-ins. Ethan said he'd get there early and put our names on the list.

One phone call from him could have emptied the place. Instead, he was apparently standing in line like anyone else, because I'd once told him I hated watching people scramble to please him.

Updates came every few minutes.

12 parties ahead of us.

9 now.

The heat outside was unbearable.

Stay in the shade, I texted.

He sent back a sticker: a small gray puppy, nodding very seriously.

Biscuit.

Ethan had shown up at my door with him a month after we started dating.

“Since we can't live together,” he'd said, scratching behind the puppy's ears, “I got you a tiny bodyguard.”

He paid for the food, booked the vet visits, and referred to himself as Dad without cracking a smile.

A year later, Biscuit pulled free of his leash and bolted after something across the road. A car hit him before I could catch up.

Afterward, I turned my favorite photos of him into stickers, because I couldn't stand the thought of never seeing that face again.

Ethan sent them every time we argued. Biscuit with sad eyes. Biscuit pleading. Biscuit flat on his back, surrendering.

They used to melt me before he'd even said sorry.

I traced the tiny gray face with my thumb.

There had been love. Real tenderness, too. I didn't need to deny that to know it was over.

At five thirty, Ethan said there were still six groups ahead of us. I left early so he wouldn't be waiting by himself.

From across the street, I could see him through the bistro's front window.

He was already at a table.

Vanessa sat next to him, picking at a slice of cake they were sharing.

Ethan saw me and came straight outside. He reached for my hand.

I moved it away.

He looked at his empty fingers, then at me.

“I figured if you showed up, we were okay.”

“We're not. I came to end this properly. And to get my locket.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“Claire, not out here on the street.”

He took hold of my sleeve and steered me toward the private room. When I pulled back, his grip only tightened.

“Ethan. Let go of me.”

“Just come inside.”