Chapter 3

The tiny hope I'd felt that morning, standing beside Sloane in front of our mirror, popped like a soap bubble.

As they passed my table, Sloane's eyes locked on mine.

I immediately lowered my head and studied the menu as if I hadn't seen her. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her stop short.

Tristan followed her gaze.

"What is it?"

Before she could answer, he tugged her farther into the restaurant.

"Come on. You promised we'd get the tuna tartare today."

I took a sip of water. Sloane kept looking back as he pulled her away, but she didn't come over.

A server showed them to a private dining room.

I turned my attention to the menu and ordered the crudo platter.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. The design firm I'd interviewed with had emailed me onboarding documents. I was about to open them when a new post from Tristan appeared.

Nine pictures. The first was a close-up of two hands clasped together.

"Five years later. Same taste. Same person," the caption said.

The comments were already pouring in.

"Wait, is this your official announcement?"

"Sloane finally got her first love back!"

"When's the wedding?"

Tristan answered them all with a blushing emoji.

I set the phone facedown as my food arrived. The salmon was sliced paper-thin. I added a dab of horseradish and took a bite.

The heat shot straight up my nose.

For once, it didn't bring tears to my eyes.

Outside the restaurant, my phone buzzed again.

A message from Sloane.

"Eli, there's a new bakery on the east side. Want me to bring you a cake?"

I stared at the screen.

For three years, she'd brought home pastries from that side of town. Pistachio crepe cake, molten chocolate cake, raspberry mousse. Every time, something different.

I'd never told her I had a sweet tooth, much less asked her to drive across the city for dessert.

Last week, Tristan had posted a photo of his apartment. It was on the east side.

Suddenly every cake made sense.

Each one had been an excuse to visit him. Each little gift I'd mistaken for affection was a souvenir of another lie.

I left her message unanswered and called a real estate agent, Greg Harmon, instead.

I asked him to list our home.

When Sloane and I were still in love, she'd insisted on putting the property in my name alone. She said she wanted me to feel secure.

Funny. That promise was the one thing she'd actually kept.

* * *

After speaking with Greg, I didn't go home. I caught a cab to the apartment of my old college roommate, Nate Callahan.

He watched me make dinner in his kitchen, astonishment written all over his face.

"You were practically a prince back in college," he said. "I don't think I ever saw you touch a stove. What happened to you?"

I scrubbed the skillet and looked down at the rough patches on my hands.

How was I supposed to tell him I'd gotten those calluses learning to make Sloane's favorite soups? Or that I hadn't been to a live music show in three years because she'd once complained they were too loud?

I set the spatula aside and gave him a small smile.

"A lot happened. But it won't happen again."

The next day, when I returned home, Sloane was sitting on the living room couch in the same blue suit she'd worn to the restaurant.

A carefully decorated cake stood on the dining table. Across the icing, cheerful letters spelled out: "Happy Fifth Anniversary."

The moment she saw me, she shot to her feet.

Her eyes were bloodshot.