That was a lie.
I went because some bruised part of me wanted Ethan to see that I’d survived.
The night before the wedding, I sat at the hotel bar with the invitation beside my glass.
A man sat two stools away and glanced at it.
“That looks fancy,” he said.
“The paper?” I asked.
“The whole mood around it.”
I looked at him carefully.
He was tall and calm.
“Well, it cost me fifteen years,” I said.
