Chapter 3

By the time we got home from dropping Mia off, it was almost one in the morning.

The elevator carried us up in silence. In the mirrored doors, Ethan and I stood side by side like a couple in an expensive advertisement: well dressed, composed, respectable. From the outside, no one would have guessed that there was almost nothing left to say between us.

When we stepped into the apartment, Ethan dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door.

We had bought that bowl the first year we moved in together. It had a chip on one side from when I knocked it against a moving box, and I used to say we should replace it. Ethan had always refused. He said a home needed a few imperfect things, or it looked like a showroom.

Now the bowl sat exactly where it always had, familiar and strange at the same time.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said, loosening his tie. "We'll talk after."

I nodded.

He seemed relieved by my silence, or maybe he was simply too tired to start another conversation. A few moments later, the bathroom door closed, and the sound of running water filled the apartment.

For a while, I stood alone in the hallway.

Then I went into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet.

I opened the closet and began taking things out slowly.

A linen dress. A thin cardigan. A swimsuit. Flat sandals for the beach. The silk scarf Maya said made me look less like a woman who spent her life answering emails.

Then I reached for the white satin dress hanging near the back.

Maya had chosen white for the bridal party's rehearsal dinner, mostly because she said the photos would look clean against the water. The dress was not a wedding gown, and it was not meant to compete with hers. It was simple satin, with a soft neckline and a skirt light enough to move in the wind.

Still, my fingers paused on the hanger. I had bought it for Ethan.

Not to trap him. Not to embarrass him in front of our friends. I had bought it because some foolish part of me believed that if everything was ready, if the place was ready, if the dress was ready, if the moment was placed gently enough in his hands, he might finally stop finding reasons to wait.

I folded the dress carefully and placed it in the suitcase.

Then I opened the bottom drawer to look for the pearl earrings I had planned to wear with it. My hand brushed against a small velvet box buried beneath old scarves and ticket stubs.

I knew what it was before I opened it.

Inside lay a silver bracelet, slightly tarnished now, with a tiny starfish charm at the center.

It was the first gift Ethan ever gave me.

Back then, he was still a surgical fellow who lived mostly on hospital coffee and three hours of sleep. On our first real date, he arrived forty minutes late, hair still damp from a rushed shower, one button of his shirt fastened wrong. He looked more nervous than I had ever seen him.

"I can't give you much yet," he had said, holding out the box like it was something breakable. "But you told me you loved the ocean, so I thought I'd start small."

He fastened the bracelet around my wrist with clumsy fingers, then looked down at the little starfish against my skin.

"One day," he said, "I'll take you to the real thing."

I was twenty-four, in love, and young enough to think a promise could stay alive simply because someone had made it with honest eyes.

For years, I treated that promise like something sacred. I turned down beach trips with friends. I skipped resort previews whenever I could. When Maya called me ridiculous, I laughed and told her I was saving the ocean for my wedding.

Now, sitting on the edge of our bed with the bracelet in my palm and the shower still running down the hall, it only felt sad.

Under the box was an old photo strip from college.

Maya was laughing with her mouth open. Ben was making a stupid peace sign behind her head. Ethan had one arm around my shoulders, and I was leaning into him like I had never questioned where I belonged.

I looked young in that photo.

Ethan came out a few minutes later in sweatpants, his hair damp, a towel hanging around his neck. He had probably meant to go straight to the closet for a shirt, but his eyes landed on the open suitcase first.

Then on the white dress.

His expression changed.

"You're still going?" he asked.

I zipped the small jewelry pouch and set it beside the dress.

"Of course. It's Maya's wedding."

His gaze stayed on the white satin for another second. "And that?"

"For the ceremony weekend."

It was a reasonable answer. There would be a welcome dinner, a rehearsal by the water, photographs, drinks after the ceremony. As Maya's maid of honor and the brand manager responsible for the resort launch, I had every reason to bring something white and polished.

Ethan still heard what he wanted to hear. He ran the towel once over his hair, then let out a slow breath.

"About tonight," he said. "Mia was an accident."

I looked up.

"She wasn't supposed to come to the dinner," he continued. "We had an emergency surgery this afternoon, and she stayed with me for six hours without complaining. Her father's health has been unstable, she's exhausted, and I didn't want her going home alone that late."

He sounded calm. Sensible. Kind.

That was always Ethan's gift. He could make every choice sound like compassion, even when I was the one left swallowing the hurt.

I picked up another dress and folded it into the suitcase.

"I understand."

He watched me for a moment, as if waiting for the rest of the argument to appear. When it didn't, his shoulders eased.

"Good," he said, his voice softening. "I knew you would."