Chapter 1

Four years into my marriage with Ethan Miller, he brought a seafood pizza to the table.

I looked at it and said, "I'm allergic to shrimp, remember?"

His hand, holding the fork, froze.

"Wait, aren't you allergic to mangoes?"

Never.

On the top right corner of the fridge, there was still a sticky note he had written himself: "Hazel's Allergies: Shrimp, Penicillin, Pollen."

It had been there for four years. The corners were curled. He opened the fridge at least five times a day; all he had to do was look down.

The person allergic to mangoes wasn't me.

I didn't press him. I just picked the shrimp off and ate the mangoes he bought later. They were sweet.

He looked relieved, thinking we were past it.

That night, while cleaning the kitchen, I peeled the sticky note off. It left a clean, white square on the fridge door.

I folded the paper neatly and slipped it under his car keys on the counter.

He would grab those keys tomorrow morning.

If he saw the note and asked why I took it down—it meant he still remembered what was on it.

If he just took the keys and left—

Then it was time for me to leave, too.