Ethan sits in one of the leather chairs with the infuriating ease of a man convinced the world will continue arranging itself around him no matter what he has done. He is in a navy suit I helped pick out last fall for a charity gala. His wedding ring gleams under the overhead light. The detail lands like a blade slid slowly between my ribs.
Beside him sits Lauren Whitaker, calm and polished and offensively serene.
She is prettier than she has any right to be in this moment. Her pale blue wrap dress is soft and tasteful, her hair pinned in deliberate loose curls, her makeup subtle enough to masquerade as innocence. In her arms lies a newborn wrapped in a knitted gray blanket, sleeping with the careless peace only babies possess, blissfully unaware that the adults surrounding him are made of lies.
I stop walking.
Not dramatically. Not with some cinematic gasp that would at least grant my pain the dignity of performance. I simply stop, my body refusing to move farther into a reality it has not consented to.
Ethan looks up first.
No shame.
No panic.
Not even defensiveness.
Just a vague irritation, as if I am late to a meeting he expected me to ruin with feelings.