Chapter 2

The cold rain soaked through me in an instant, but I couldn't feel the cold.

Oliver's words kept circling in my head. You think you deserve the real thing?

I thought about the past.

I thought about our thirtieth cold war, when I'd slammed the door and run out crying, and he chased me through the downpour, fastened that necklace around my neck, and said, "Stop it, Anita. Come home."

I thought about the fortieth, when I moved out and he stood downstairs all night, then pressed that handbag into my hands at dawn. "Don't be angry, Anita."

I'd thought he just didn't know how to say it, that those luxury gifts were his clumsy, unspoken proof of love.

I never imagined they were all fake.

The joke was on me, forgiving him again and again with those fakes.

I stumbled home and started tearing through everything I owned.

The anniversary necklace, the birthday watch, the Valentine's rings, all the things that were supposed to hold his feelings, all the ones that meant something...

Not one was real.

Not one.

I sank down into the mess on the floor and finally sobbed out loud.

For eight years, I'd never looked closely.

Because when he gave them to me, his voice was so doting, his eyes so tender. He'd said:

"Anita, you deserve the best and most expensive things in the world."

And I'd actually believed him.

I don't know how long it was before Jeanette dragged Oliver in, propping him up by the arm.

"Anita, Mr. Henson had too much to drink tonight. I brought him home."

She got Oliver settled, then straightened up, her gaze moving from my face to the boxes on the floor.

"Anita, why are you digging through all this?"

She tilted her head, her tone innocent. "Oh, right, are you looking for that scarf?"

I turned to check, and only then noticed the box was empty. The gray-blue scarf was gone.

My mother had rushed to finish it before she died, every stitch by hand, a wedding present for me, she'd said.

Jeanette followed my eyes, glanced down, and smiled.

"That thing? I mentioned it in passing last month, and Mr. Henson just gave it to me. Said it was taking up space at home."

"Where did you put it? Give it back!"

"Oh, I just tossed it out."

She blinked, saying it as if it were nothing.

"Handmade stuff like that, it's so tacky. Who'd want it?"

When I stood up my legs had gone numb, and I had to brace myself against the wall to stay upright.

"Oliver." I called his name.

The man on the couch shifted, frowning in irritation.

"...What's all the noise."

"That scarf. You gave it to Jeanette?"

He paused, propped himself halfway up, and let out a careless scoff.

"That ratty scarf? So it got thrown out. It wasn't worth fifty bucks."

He pulled a wad of cash from his wallet and hurled it at me.

The bills came down all over my face and scattered around my feet.

"Go on, buy a new one, and stop bothering me."

"Enough? There's more if that's not enough."

Jeanette covered her mouth with a laugh and bent to steady Oliver's arm.

"Mr. Henson, let me help you to the bedroom to rest."

Oliver gave a low grunt and let himself slump against her.

I thought again of my mother's deathbed, of him holding my hand and saying, "Don't worry, ma'am. I'll take care of Anita for the rest of her life."

So it turned out those promises were fake too.

"Oliver."

I said it to his back.

"If anyone's leaving, it's the two of you. This house is mine."