Chapter 2

The next morning, I didn’t have his jacket pressed. I went to a different clinic and listened to two fast little heartbeats through the ultrasound machine.

“They both look good.” The doctor moved the probe away. “Have you had a scare recently? Your pulse is a little high.”

I loosened my grip on my shirt. “A nightmare. A very long one.”

For a moment, I could hear my son telling me he’d call later. My daughter asking me not to argue. They’d grown up watching me give way until neither thought to ask what it cost.

I looked at the two small shapes on the screen. These babies hadn’t learned any of that yet.

I rested a hand on my stomach. I’m keeping them. And I’m getting us out.

Before leaving, I revoked Dante’s access to the family medical account and changed the contact number on my records. The nurse promised to check the information transferred from my old clinic. I thanked her and put my next appointment in my calendar.

Nora was waiting in the parking lot. She took the notarized originals, flipped to Dante’s signature, and raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen people rush through a divorce. Never seen a man sign one like he’s approving the yacht’s fuel bill.”

For the first time, I managed a smile. “He doesn’t think I’d actually leave.”

“Then he’d better go easy on the champagne. That confirmation’s going to sober him right up.” She locked the papers in her briefcase, her expression turning serious. “Your address is in my confidential file. I’ve arranged your airport transfer and made backup copies of everything.”

When I got back to the house on the hill, a takeout bag sat on a porch chair. There was a message from Dante on my phone.

[I was out of line last night. I ordered you lunch. Don’t forget to eat.]

Inside was my favorite grilled cheese. The grease had congealed on the wrapper, and the bread scraped the roof of my mouth when I bit into it.

Ruth’s food truck was where I’d learned to love grilled cheese. After Mom died, my stepmother locked the kitchen and told my father I was too picky to eat anything she made. He was away so often that he never bothered to check. Ruth parked near my school and let me wipe down a few tables in exchange for a sandwich hot off the griddle.

I’d told Dante about it after we got married, trying to make the story sound funny. He hadn’t laughed. He’d pushed half his own sandwich onto my plate.

“You don’t have to earn a meal in my house.”

I’d wanted to crawl into his arms and cry. After that, whenever he hurt me over Evelyn, the same lunch arrived. He paid off her husband’s repair-shop debt, and I got a sandwich. He spent our anniversary helping her sort out an insurance claim, and I got another one.

I took every delivery as proof that he still cared.

I’d always opened the bag before deciding whether to answer his message. Even when I was furious, I made myself eat what he sent. Throwing it away had felt too much like refusing the apology I wanted so badly.

My phone buzzed again. My stepmother had posted a video in the group chat she shared with Evelyn and me. It had been filmed at my father’s lake house.

Dante stood over the terrace grill with his sleeves rolled up. He hadn’t left it to the chef. He lifted out a lobster tail, cut open the shell, and offered Evelyn a bite.

[Finally, someone who can get her to eat. The doctor says she’s so traumatized she shakes at the sight of a dinner knife.]

In the video, Evelyn held his sleeve and murmured that it was hot. He waited, switched to a smaller fork, and tested the temperature before offering it again.

He must’ve been busy taking care of her when my lunch arrived. I put the rest of my cold sandwich back in the bag. My throat wouldn’t let me swallow another bite, and this time I didn’t force myself to try.

Instead, I washed my hands and made scrambled eggs. While they cooked, I called the landlord in Haven Bay to check that the kitchen in my rental worked. Mom had been born there. I’d chosen it as the place where I would start over.

That evening, Dante called to ask how lunch had been.

“Cold. I threw it out.”

He went quiet. “You never used to throw it out.”

“I used to think I had to keep everything you gave me.”

“You’re still angry.” His voice dropped. “Is that what moving out is about? You want me to come after you?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

I looked at the documents packed in my bag. “Wait for my lawyer to call.”

He didn’t answer. Evelyn cried out in the background, and a moment later he hung up.

Two days later, I was checking my flight when my stepmother’s voice drifted up from downstairs. “Dante, we’ll sleep so much better knowing she’s here with you.”