Page 3 of Ashes of Us
The little dining table sat under the window, one chair still pulled out. Liam’s jacket hung over the back of it, and I stopped in the doorway, staring. Navy blue fleece, worn at the elbows, smelling like smoke and his cologne. He'd thrown it there this morning before leaving for his shift, too distracted to notice itwasn’t where it belonged. I'd walked past it a dozen times, barely noticed it.
Now I couldn't look away.
The wedding binder was on the coffee table. Three inches thick, bursting with magazine clippings and fabric swatches and my handwritten notes in the margins.
Ivory vs. cream? Ask about string lights. Liam's cousin is vegetarian, check menu.
Months and months of planning. A year of being engaged.
And I didn't even know how long he'd been lying.
My purse slipped off my shoulder and hit the floor. I walked past the binder, past his jacket, into the kitchen. As if by instinct, I opened the fridge. Our cake-tasting leftovers were still in there. Neat little slices wrapped in cling film, each labeled in my handwriting. Lemon poppyseed. Chocolate hazelnut. Vanilla bean.
Vanilla bean was the frontrunner, the flavor I’d spent the morning perfecting, as if precision could hold everything together. We were supposed to do a final test with the cupcakes, make the choice official. But he’d been so busy lately that I told myself I was being thoughtful, not desperate, when I brought them to him instead.
The cupcakes were probably still scattered across Station 47’s linoleum floor. Perfect swirls of buttercream smashed flat, just like everything else I’d thought was solid.
I closed the fridge.
My hands were shaking again. I needed to do something. Needed to move. Needed to…
I pulled open the pantry and started grabbing things. Butter, flour, sugar, baking powder. I didn't know what I was making.Didn't care. I just needed my hands to be busy, needed the routine, needed something that made sense.
Measure. Pour. Mix.
Thatmade sense.
The butter wasn't soft enough but I creamed it anyway, the wooden spoon scraping against the bowl. My phone buzzed on the counter. It was face down, but I could still see the screen lighting up over and over. I ignored it. Cracked eggs one-handed the way I always did, watched the yolks slide into the bowl.
My vision blurred.
I blinked and kept mixing.
The first batch went into the oven. Muffins, I think, or maybe they were supposed to be cupcakes. I didn't remember adding the baking powder. Didn't remember preheating the oven. But the timer was set and the kitchen smelled like vanilla and butter, and for thirty seconds I could almost pretend everything was fine.
Then I saw the engagement photo on the fridge.
Us at the beach last summer, his arm around my waist, both of us laughing at something his brother had said. I'd been so happy that day. We'd stayed until sunset, and he'd kissed me while the waves crashed behind us and told me he couldn't wait to marry me.
I yanked the photo down and shoved it in the junk drawer.
The timer went off and I pulled the muffins out. They were lopsided, too dark on top. Burnt. I stared at them for a long moment, then dumped the entire pan in the trash.
I leaned against the counter, breathing hard.
Jenna.
I'd met her at the Christmas party. Six months ago. She'd seemed nice, really. Quiet, and a little awkward in the way new people are when they're trying to fit in with an establishedgroup. She'd asked me about my classroom, complimented the scarf I was wearing. I'd liked her.
Had it started then? At the party, with me standing right there?
Or later. Maybe January. February. March.
How long?
I didn't even know how long.
I tried to remember March. Parent-teacher conferences. The spring musical rehearsals. I’d stayed late three nights a week helping with costumes. Liam had been working overtime, or so he’d said. Double shifts, budget meetings, a training seminar in Sacramento. It made sense, didn’t it? He was on track for Station Captain, buried in overtime and leadership courses and whatever else would make him look indispensable.
