Sunlight cut through the gauzy hotel curtains in a pale gold stripe, and for one foolish second I reached across the sheets expecting warmth. The bed beside me was empty.
The pillow still held the dent of Ethan’s head, and somewhere beyond the balcony door I heard his voice, low and careful, the way he spoke when he didn’t want to be overheard.
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He was telling her about last night.
For three years, I had loved this man. I had watched his mother, Lena, call during our dinners, choose his ties for job interviews, and once, in a vacation photo, reach into the frame to reposition my hand on his arm because I was “holding it wrong.”
“After the wedding, it stops,” Ethan had told me a week before the ceremony. “I swear on everything, Avery. It stops.”
I had believed him.
I slid out of bed and walked barefoot toward the balcony. The door was cracked open just enough for his voice to slip through.
“No, Mom, she was nervous at first. Yeah, I told her exactly that. No, not like you warned me about.”