Then the doorbell rang. Sarah doesn’t knock like normal people. Sarah knocks like she’s coming to raid a compound. She walked in with a giant bag of chips, a bottle of Cabernet, and the face of a state prosecutor.
“Where’s the emotional corpse?” “In the living room,” I said.
Marcus looked at her, deeply offended. “This is a private matter.”
Sarah smiled. “No, my king. When a private matter has screenshots, it’s a documentary.”
I didn’t sleep in my bed that night. I slept in the guest room with Sarah sprawled across an armchair, snoring like a bulldog, while I stared at the ceiling, understanding something I should have understood sooner: love isn’t measured by how much you can endure, but by how much of yourself you aren’t willing to lose.
At eight in the morning, Marcus knocked on the door. “I made coffee.” “I made an appointment with a lawyer,” I replied.
Silence. “What?”
I opened the door. He was standing there with two mugs, as if French roast could erase the chat where he begged his ex for pictures.
“Don’t overreact, Elena.”
There it was again. The disguised word. Overreact. As if my pain needed permission to take up space.
“I’m not overreacting. I’m organizing.” “Over a few texts?” “Over years of making me feel crazy every time I smelled smoke and you hid the fire.”
He looked down. And for the first time, I didn’t care.
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