Chapter 2

After the plane landed, I just picked a hotel at random.

Dahlonega was a small coastal town in the South, far from New York. Paul wouldn't chase me down that easily.

I was checking in when a moving group chat that had been silent for three years suddenly lit up.

*Mr. Adam, the furniture at the East Hampton house has been arranged. Please confirm.*

The group was still called "Paul & Elvira's Move"—but there, right in the member list, was Yetta.

The moving company sent a walkthrough video.

Every piece of furniture I'd hand-picked was sitting in Yetta's living room. Even the new mattress I'd just bought had been placed on Yetta's bed frame.

Yetta dropped a voice message in the chat.

"Move the dining table a little closer to the window. Paul says all of this is going to be mine from now on."

That dining table was one Paul and I had assembled together.

He'd been drenched in sweat, but he'd wrapped his arms around me and said:

"When we buy a new place someday, this table's coming with us."

He hadn't broken his promise.

He'd just moved it into Yetta's new house instead.

I contacted the movers privately and asked them to deliver my clothes and the things my parents had sent to the hotel.

Then I called Paul.

"Why did you give all my furniture to Yetta?"

His voice was even. "That furniture's three years old. I was going to replace it anyway."

"Yetta just moved in and needed things. Better to give it to her than throw it out."

I tightened my grip on the phone.

"What about the mattress? You'd been complaining about your back for months. I saved up three months of pay to get you that mattress."

He sighed softly, his voice going gentle.

"Elvira, I know you're attached to it."

"But Yetta didn't have time to buy one. She uses it every night—it's not something you can skimp on."

"I'll buy you a new mattress and new furniture. You won't lose out."

I hung up without arguing.

A little while later, he texted again.

*Tomorrow's our anniversary. I gave the movers your gift—it'll ship with the rest of your things.*

The next afternoon, my luggage arrived.

Next to the stacked boxes was a poster tube with no shipping label.

Inside was our wedding photo.

I asked the movers about it. They replied:

*The wedding photo wasn't on the packing list. I think the frame went to Yetta's place.*

My heart sank.

Three years ago, Paul had hung it above our bed and said he wanted to open his eyes every morning to a moment of our happiness together.

Now the picture was mine. The frame that had held it was Yetta's.

I threw the photo in the trash.

I opened the last box. Inside was a white Rimowa carry-on.

A sticky note was stuck to it.

*Our third anniversary's coming up. Come home once you've had enough of a break.*

My phone buzzed.

Yetta had posted on Instagram—matching suitcases, two first-class tickets to Dahlonega, and a custom honeymoon itinerary Paul had put together for her.

*The white one's too basic. Told Paul to use it to smooth things over with somebody.*

*No marriage certificate, but at least I finally got the honeymoon.*

I looked down at the white suitcase.

The wheels were dusty. The tag had been peeled off.

So Paul's anniversary gift was just Yetta's leftovers.

I opened the honeymoon itinerary again.

The hotels, the restaurants, the sights—all of it was the plan I'd researched and put together years ago.

Back then, Paul had only said, "Once we can afford it."

Now, the itinerary was untouched—except for the name of the companion.

When I checked out, the hotel manager came out holding the white suitcase I'd left behind.

"Elvira, aren't you taking this with you?"

"No. Please just throw it away."