My Horrible Ex-Husband Can't Move On, But I Can

Ethan's pov

Six years ago.

Aaron Warner's mouth flavored the spearmint gum and risk. Risk I knew I shouldn't desire but couldn't help anyway. His palms pushed me back into the cushioning on the couch, his long-fingered hands roaming through my hair as he had been waiting his whole lifetime for this moment. My chest pressed up and down onto his, his heat dripping through my thin T-shirt to remind me that my parents still existed, that my brother would walk in at the worst time, that breaking all the rules in the unofficial book on common sense was the very thing that we were doing.

He kissed as he intended on stamping me with his symbol, like each lip touch carved his mark further onto my sternum. Aaron Warner was forever my brother's best friend—the boy who hung out in our kitchen, the boy who called me names when I was young, who grew taller, stronger, unapproachable with the advancing years. I used to sneak glances when nobody noticed. I used to wonder whether he even saw me as anything but Connor's little brother.

But here he was. Acknowledging me. Touching me. Breathing into me as though I was the only thing keeping the world going for him.

"Ethan," he whispered across my lips, the sound my name an inside secret that only he was aware of how to pronounce. His palm left the scalp on my jaw, tipping me just far enough for others to turn the kiss further. Fire flowed through my bloodstream, my hands grasping the back of his shirt as though he would vanish when I let go of the hold.

"I don't believe it," I whispered, breaking for air, though my mouth kept colliding with his.

He beamed, that crooked smile that used to sting me when I was too young for the reason why. "Believe it. You're mine, Ethan. You've always been."

Something in me broke open at those words. It was everything I wanted and everything I feared. Because if Connor—if my parents—ever knew what Aaron and I were doing, it wouldn’t just be me in trouble. Aaron was six years older, practically family. They trusted him. They loved him. And they would never forgive him.

I shoved the thought away, pressing myself closer, hungry for every stolen second. His lips trailed down the edge of my jaw, his breath hot against my skin. My heart pounded so loud I thought he’d hear it and tease me, but he didn’t. He just pulled me tighter, his body fitting perfectly against mine as if he belonged nowhere else.

Then a sound cracked the air—tires crunching against gravel in the driveway.

Aaron froze. His lips left mine, and he jerked his head toward the window, muscles tense. “What was that?”

I swallowed hard, pulse spiking. “Car doors?”

“Shit.” He pushed off me so fast the room spun. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his breathing ragged, then glanced down at his wrist. The watch gleamed in the low light—silver face, leather band, the kind of elegant, expensive piece that screamed Aaron Warner is not a boy anymore.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “It’s five twenty-eight. You said six.”

“I thought it was six!” My voice cracked as I scrambled upright, fingers shaking as I tried to flatten my shirt. My hair was a mess, thanks to his hands pulling through it a thousand times, and I tugged at it uselessly, trying to tame what couldn’t be tamed.

“They’re early. They’re goddamn early.” Aaron’s eyes darted to the front window. “They’ll see my car. Your dad notices everything—there’s no way he missed it in the driveway.” He cursed again, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, fastening them crooked before yanking them open and starting over. “I’m dead. We’re dead. This is—”

“Calm down.” I grabbed his arm, my voice low, urgent. “Just—just pretend we were watching a movie, okay? That’s all. You came over, we hung out, no big deal.”

Aaron took an angry breath, nostrils flaring, then gave a single nod, but the panic in his dark eyes was his betrayal. "Fine. Movie. Right." He slung himself onto the couch, snatched the remote, turned the TV on. The light illuminated his hard jaw, but he sat rigidly, unrealistically.

I managed to the dining table, books spread, pen poised, as if I'd spent the whole time doing homework instead of submerged in him. My legs shook beneath the table.

The door swung wide. My parents' voices drifted in first, light and cheerful. Then the rustle of grocery bags, the squeak of shoes on flooring.

"Oh!" my mom said, her voice brighter with wonder. "Aaron, sweetheart. I didn't think you'd be home."

Aaron leapt to his feet with practiced flair, his phony smile slipping onto its place. "Mrs. Banks. Mr. Banks. Good to see you." He moved towards them, embracing my mom, shaking hands with my dad. My chest tightened. He was all smooth, all calm, as though his heart hadn't been hammering in his ribcage two minutes previous.

And then Connor strolled in, wide-shouldered, smiling. "Warner."

They shook hands in that natural, brotherly gesture they always exchanged, years of friendship plain in the motion. My stomach tightened, sweat collecting at my spine.

"Ethan, honey," my mom called over her shoulder. "We got dinner. What'll you have? We went to that place on 5th you love."

I managed my pen to travel across paper, though the letters blurred. My voice trembled when I replied, "Uh—anythings okay, Mom."

I could not help but look up. Across the room, Aaron's gaze met mine. Just for one moment. Just long enough to remind me of all the things we'd just done, all the things none in this home would ever know.

My hand trembled so violently I had to set the pen down. My parents sped past the doorway to the kitchen, Connor dumped the bags onto the counter, the smell oftakeout filled the room. But all I felt was the burn ofAaron's eyes across the space between us, and the terror that possibly, in some teacher, Connor would see right through the both of us.

That night, in bed, the house closing in on me, I swore I heard the sound ofAaron's voice inside my head: You're mine, Ethan. Always have been. 

And I knew he felt that.

Until he went missing. 

That night was the last I saw Aaron Warner.