Chapter 2

I stared at the lighter, then quietly moved to the back seat.

Joan frowned at me through the mirror. "Why are you back there? Am I your chauffeur now?"

"The front's too cramped. My legs don't fit."

Three years ago, she'd promised the passenger seat would always be mine.

Now she couldn't even bother moving it back.

When we got home, I punched in our usual six-digit code.

Error.

The door stayed locked.

I froze.

Joan stepped up and casually entered Derek's birthday.

Beep.

The door opened.

I turned to her, stiff.

She walked inside like it was no big deal.

"Derek said the old code was too hard to remember. He comes by sometimes to grab documents or packages, so it was annoying."

"So I changed it to his birthday."

'She changed the code to our apartment to another guy's birthday.'

I took a slow breath and ignored the chill spreading through my chest.

I opened the bedroom door—and froze again.

The dark gray bedding I'd picked out was gone, replaced by some flashy champagne-colored set.

My cedar diffuser was gone too. Now the whole room reeked of citrus.

Derek walked out of the kitchen with a plate of sliced fruit.

"Clint, you're back." He nodded toward the bedroom. "The gray felt kinda depressing, so I switched it out. Joan liked this better too."

Then he lifted his hand, the diamond ring flashing under the light.

"Oh, and I'm keeping the ring on a couple more days. Joan's worried I'll hurt my finger forcing it off."

He acted like he lived there.

I looked at Joan. "This is what you meant by him helping us?"

She tugged at her collar, annoyed. "Derek has better taste than you. What's the big deal? It's just bedding."

"Quit acting like such a victim. You make it sound like we're bullying you."

I didn't argue. I just looked at her.

Piece by piece, she was killing whatever hope I had left for us.

My stare must've gotten to her because she pulled a bank card from her wallet and tossed it onto the coffee table.

"The PIN's your birthday. If you hate the bedding that much, buy another set tomorrow."

"Derek spent all day helping us. I'm taking him out to dinner as a thank-you."

She grabbed the keys and left with him, slamming the door behind them.

The apartment went dead quiet.

I picked up the card.

This was how Joan apologized.

Hurt me first. Then throw money at it.

But I didn't want any of it anymore.

I pulled out my phone and called the real estate agent.

"Mr. Smith, put my apartment on the market."

Joan and I had split the mortgage, but my parents had paid the down payment, and the deed was in my name alone.

Mr. Smith sounded stunned. "Mr. Crawford, wasn't that supposed to be your future home? Why sell it now?"

"The wedding's off."

My voice came out so calm, it surprised even me.

After I hung up, I started packing.

Clothes. Laptop. Books.

I didn't have much. Everything fit into two suitcases.

I grabbed the old dark gray bedding and dumped it in the hallway trash.

Once something's ruined, there's no point keeping it.

When I was done, I sat alone in the empty living room and stared at the framed painting still leaning against the wall.

Joan had painted it herself—the summer we first met.

Now it just looked like a joke.

Early the next morning, Mr. Smith called.

"Mr. Crawford, I've got a buyer who's really interested. They want to see the apartment today. Does that work?"

I glanced at the empty closet.

"Anytime."