Chapter 2

That clichéd, movie-perfect damsel-in-distress moment—the moment that made my heart pound so hard I couldn't sleep that night—

had been a mistake from the start.

I was the one who chased Bayard.

Sophomore year, I'd wait along the path he took from class back to his apartment, blushing as I pressed a batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies into his hands.

Once, he'd mentioned in passing that he liked a certain Montblanc pen.

I saved three months of paychecks from my part-time job to buy it for him.

When I gave it to him, something complicated flickered across his face.

Back then, he was the whole world to me.

I figured if I was sincere enough, if I loved him hard enough, one day he'd love me back just as much.

Once, out of nowhere, he asked, "If there were always someone else in my heart, would that bother you?"

At the time, I thought he was just insecure and testing me.

I'd smiled.

"When the day comes that you realize you really can't love me, will you tell me first?"

Looking back, maybe that was the one warning his conscience ever gave me.

After we got together, he treated me well.

He knew about my panic attacks, so he kept the numbers for every nearby hospital saved in his phone.

I loved durian.

Every time, he'd scrunch up his nose while he peeled it for me.

A doctor said moderate hiking might help with my recovery, so Bayard took me hiking in Griffith Park.

By the time we came back down, he could barely walk.

Only later did I find out he'd twisted his ankle playing pickup ball with his friends the day before.

I felt so guilty and worried I almost cried.

He'd laughed and pulled me into his arms.

"Dummy. A bad ankle heals. But if you end up in the ER again, where am I supposed to find another you?"

Moments like that had once made me fall harder and harder.

Now, remembering them felt like swallowing razor blades.

One thought kept looping through my head.

If only he'd told me sooner.

Before the proposal.

Before we started dating.

Even the first day we met.

If he'd just looked me in the eye and said, "Raina, the person I love is actually Zara."

It would've hurt.

But I would've walked away.

All they had to do was tell me the truth.

They never did.

Bayard held my hand, went with me to doctor's appointments, and memorized every little warning sign that came before one of my attacks.

I'd taken all of it for love.

I'd even hugged Zara once, showing off like a little kid.

"Bayard's so good to me."

She'd smiled and stroked my hair.

"Because you deserve it."

What had she been thinking when she said that?

The woman on the phone spoke again, her voice calm.

"Go home. Look around."

"The gifts you never really looked at. The decorations. Everything you thought had been chosen for you."

I basically sprinted back to the apartment.

My hands shook so badly I could hardly get the key in the lock.

When I pushed the door open, the place was silent.

For the first time, I really looked at the apartment we'd shared for five years.

A huge painting of the ocean hung on the living room wall.

Bayard had given it to me for my birthday last year.

Before, I'd just thought the colors were pretty and worked with the room.

Now I suddenly remembered that blue had always been Zara's favorite color.

When we were kids in foster care, she used to stand in the activity room staring at a faded ocean print on the wall.

I stumbled into the bedroom.

My hand brushed the music box on the nightstand, and a familiar melody started to play.

I froze.

It was the song Zara used to hum when we were kids.

Even the music Bayard put on to help me fall asleep was a song Zara loved.

I tore into the walk-in closet like I'd lost it and dragged out the jewelry box Bayard had given me.

The earrings, necklaces, and bracelets he'd claimed he'd "carefully picked out" for me all seemed normal at first.

But when I looked closer, several of them shared the exact same design detail.

The same design as the old silver bracelet Zara had worn every day for years.

The one thing she'd brought with her into foster care.

The woman on the phone whispered, "You see it now?"

"You finally get it?"

"He never loved you."

"He was using you to love her."

"You were just the fig leaf they didn't have the guts to remove."

A key suddenly turned in the front door.