The soft, intimate smile playing on his lips was one he’d always reserved for me. Now it belonged in her text messages.
“Another one?” I tried to keep my voice neutral, cracking the eggs into the pan with more force than necessary. “This is the third crisis this month.”
“Her ex is stalking her. She’s scared, Hannah.”
Marcus, the supposed ex-boyfriend, had supposedly been stalking Charlotte for six months. Oddly, this “stalking” only happened on Thursday afternoons, precisely during Tyler’s longest lunch break. Oddly, the police never actually got involved. However, I learned that defending Charlotte was Tyler’s new religion, and I was an atheist. Instead, I simply reminded him about my dinner.
His response was a dagger of predictability. “I’ll try, but if Charlotte needs me…”
She would need it. She always did on Thursdays.
Six months ago, Tyler brought Charlotte to my pharmacy at Riverside General for the first time. He said she needed medication for anxiety. I watched from behind the counter as she laughed, touching his arm in a way that was casual, intimate, and deeply familiar.
“She’s going through a difficult divorce,” he later explained.
“She has no one else she can really talk to.”
It started with a casual lunch. Soon, it became every Thursday, stretching to three hours while I worked the night shift. Then, one evening, I smelled something floral and expensive clinging to Tyler’s shirt. A scent that didn’t belong in our home.
“Do you think Charlotte is taking advantage of your kindness?” I asked, the words cutting through my throat like glass.
Tyler looked genuinely shocked. “Abusing? Hannah, she’s being harassed by her ex. She needs support.”
“He has a therapist. And his parents are nearby.”
“But she trusts me,” he said, as if that trust were more important than our vows.
The following Thursday, it was pouring rain as I left for a work dinner. My phone sat in the cup holder, silent, and I practiced making excuses for his inevitable absence. At the corner of Fifth and Madison, a truck ran a red light. My last thought before impact was: He won’t stop.
The impact turned metal to bone. My wedding ring glistened with blood I couldn’t quite grasp as mine.
I woke up beneath the yellowing ceiling tiles of Riverside General Hospital. Dr. Webb pushed my dislocated shoulder back into place with a jerk that split me open. Patricia, a nurse with tired, kind eyes, hovered beside me.
