Chapter 3

Back at my rental apartment, I deadbolted the door and sat on the hardwood floor, taking stock of what was mine.

Two years of living together, and everything I owned fit into one suitcase and a canvas tote bag.

Some clothes, art supplies, a few books, and an old electric kettle.

The kettle had belonged to my late mother. In the winter, when my hands were always freezing, I loved wrapping my fingers around it for warmth. Carter constantly complained that it was an eyesore, that the frayed cord was a fire hazard, and told me to throw it out.

I never did.

It was the last piece of my mother I had left; I couldn't bear to let it go.

Yet I lived in that apartment with him for two years. For two whole years he nagged me to replace it, and through it all, I never figured out whether the kettle was the real hazard, or if our entire relationship was.

The kettle sat right at the top of the canvas bag, complete with a tiny dent on the metal base from when a college roommate had accidentally kicked it years ago.

Staring at that dent, memories started trickling in.

Three months into dating, I choked on a fish bone, and he told me, Maybe you should just stop eating fish.

And I actually stopped.

Four months in, he told me that seeing Brooke made me "act weird." I spent an entire afternoon brooding over it, and ended up canceling our next hangout.

Six months in, I posted a cute photo of us on Instagram. He snapped, Why are you sharing our private life online? I deleted it that very night.

Seven months in...

I cut the train of thought off.

Not out of fear. But because looking back, there wasn't a single dramatic moment I could point to and say, That's where I lost myself.

It was seven hundred days of boiling water slowly heating up degree by degree. You swim in it, thinking it's fine, thinking you can endure it, and by the time you realize you're scalding, you've already been cooked alive.

My phone buzzed.

It wasn't Carter. It was his mother.

I stared at the caller ID for a few seconds before answering.

"Chloe," she began, her tone measured, carrying that familiar, high-and-mighty edge. "Carter told me what happened between you two."

"Yeah."

"Did you leave a comment on social media?"

"I did."

"You're a grown woman. Airing out your dirty laundry on the internet like that—don't you think it's utterly classless?"

I stayed silent.

"Carter and Serena grew up together. It's completely natural for them to be close. You two aren't even married; since when do you get to dictate who he grabs dinner with?"

"Mrs. Vance," I said evenly. "Do you remember telling me, right to my face, that Carter and Serena would have been the perfect couple?"

She hesitated for a split second.

"I was joking."

"I know you were," my voice was flat. "Too bad I wasn't."

"Excuse me? How dare you speak to me like—"

"Mrs. Vance, we're done. This isn't a petty fight. It's an official breakup. I've already moved all my things out."

Silence fell over the line.

Five, maybe six seconds ticked by before she spoke again, her tone completely devoid of warmth.

"Fine. Good riddance."

Just like that.

Good riddance. Seven hundred-plus days of my life, dismissed in two callous words.

"Right," I replied. "Have a nice life."

I hung up and blocked the number.

The canvas tote rested against the baseboard. Beside it stood the mint-green suitcase, the black scuff mark facing me like an accusing eye.

I sat on the floor for a long time, until the sky outside faded into twilight.

Then my phone rang again.

I figured Carter had gotten his hands on yet another burner. But when I looked at the screen, it was a completely different local number. I picked up, and a woman's voice came through.

Syrupy sweet.

"Chloe? It's Serena."