Chapter 2

I ignored what Mr. Brown said about not having seen us in ten years and shouldered past the guy Angeline had brought along. I wrapped an arm around her waist like I was showing off.

I said, "Mr. Brown, we didn't just grow up. Angeline's my wife now. Oh, and the usual dishes. No cilantro or spice."

As always, I ordered Angeline's favorite dishes and listed her no-gos for him.

But just as Mr. Brown agreed, Angeline said, "Wait, no. Make them mildly spicy, and add cilantro."

She turned to me, her gaze shifting from puzzled to serious. "Caleb, my tastes changed a long time ago."

My smile froze, but I talked myself down pretty quickly. It was fine. I was missing ten whole years of memories. People's preferences were bound to change over such a long period.

I acted like it was no big deal and handed Angeline a set of cutlery. I said, "That's even better. I can do cilantro and spice. We can finally eat the same things."

Angeline passed the cutlery to the man who hadn't spoken thus far. "Here you go, Shawn."

Shawn. Shawn…

The name made me pause.

I finally understood why he'd looked so familiar the moment I saw him—Shawn Moore was the man Angeline had loved but had never gotten back when we were 20. It turned out not all preferences changed, even after ten years.

Was that why, a decade down the road, I wanted a divorce from Angeline, the woman I'd loved for 15 years? Because Shawn was back in the picture?

A wave of bitterness surged in my chest. My fingers closed around the envelope beside my hand. Inside was that handwritten divorce agreement and a journal.

A voice in my head told me that if I opened that journal, I would find the reason "I" wanted a divorce. But all I did was grip the envelope tighter. I didn't open it.

I loved Angeline. In my head, I was still 20 years old. And back then, I'd loved her so, so much.

…

At the table, Angeline and Shawn chatted away like nobody else was there. It was as if they'd completely forgotten I existed.

Jealousy burned in my eyes, and I deliberately banged my plate around, making a ton of noise. Angeline still didn't look at me, though.

Maybe the 30-year-old me could've handled this with class—maybe I could've just excused myself and walked out with a smile. But the 20-year-old me didn't know anything about that.

I slammed my cutlery down on the table and yelled, "Angeline, I'm your husband! I'm seriously pissed right now!"

I grabbed the envelope and stormed off. I loved Angeline, sure, but that didn't mean I never got mad.

I sat on a park bench, waiting for her to come to me and apologize. But even after three hours, she didn't show.

I took in the unfamiliar surroundings and the total blank in my head. Somehow, I managed to talk myself down again.

It was fine. I'd long since gotten used to Angeline treating me with this lukewarm indifference. Otherwise, I wouldn't have married her in the first place.

I leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, texting her. "Darling, where's our place again? You know I've forgotten everything."

Her reply popped up almost the second I hit send. It was a pin to a villa, plus one line. "Stop wandering around if your brain's busted. Quit being a pain in the neck."

I pretended I hadn't seen that part, then spammed a few kiss emojis and replied to her with a "Thanks, darling" and several exclamation marks.

…

When I got to the villa, all I saw was a cold, empty place. There was only one pair of slippers, one toothbrush, and one of every daily essential.

Even on the bed, there was only one pillow.