Chapter 5

"Take a look at this."

Harper handed me her phone.

On the screen was an Instagram post her coworker had shared. I clicked on the profile—it was Maya’s. It was a beautifully composed photo of the Northern Lights in Iceland, the sky glowing with vibrant green and deep blue.

The caption read: *E promised he’d show me the real Aurora Borealis at least once in this lifetime. He kept his promise.*

The post was dated two months ago.

I stared at the date.

Two months ago.

Two months ago, I had asked Ethan if he had any vacation time this winter so we could go see the Northern Lights. He had said, "We’ll see. Work is too crazy right now."

The Northern Lights.

When we first started dating two years ago, we lay on the grass in a park, looking up at the stars. He told me that when he made enough money, he would take me to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. I had saved a photo of the Aurora as my lock screen and kept it there for two years.

I brought it up six months ago, and he told me to wait. I brought it up again two months ago, and he told me we'd talk about it later.

But he took her instead.

And he told her it was a promise for "this lifetime."

"There's more," Harper said, sliding to the next screenshot.

It was from Thanksgiving. A photo of a dinner table with a rustic wooden cabinet and holiday decorations in the background. The caption read: *Thanksgiving dinner at E’s place. His grandmother's pecan pie is absolutely divine.*

I recognized the room. Ethan had shown me photos of his grandmother’s house. The wooden cabinet, the pothos plant on the windowsill, the vintage painting on the wall.

It was identical.

On the day before Thanksgiving, he had told me his grandmother wasn't feeling well and that having too many people over would overwhelm her, so I shouldn't go.

I had spent two weeks preparing. I bought premium tea and gift baskets, practiced baking a pecan pie his grandmother might like, and tried on four different outfits for him to help me choose.

He told me not to go.

But Maya went.

She was the one who ate his grandmother's pie.

Harper didn't say a word. She sat across from me, waiting for me to process it on my own.

I handed the phone back to her.

"When did these happen?"

"The Iceland trip was two months ago. Thanksgiving dinner was last November. You guys were still very much together," Harper’s voice was dangerously low.

"Chloe, this didn't happen after the breakup. While you guys were still dating, every single thing he promised you but failed to do, he did with her."

I sat on her couch, staring at the fruit bowl on the coffee table.

Harper said, "Remember when you told me that the first time he brought up Maya, he complained about how 'clingy' she was? Do you remember if he was smiling or looked annoyed when he said it?"

I remembered. He had been smiling.

"He was smiling," she repeated. "When a guy introduces another girl to you and the first word he uses is 'clingy'—and he’s smiling while saying it—that’s not a complaint, Chloe. That's a boast."

The doorbell rang.

Harper got up to answer it. Ethan was standing in the doorway.

He must have gotten Harper’s address from Tiffany.

"Is Chloe in there?"

Harper blocked the door, refusing to let him in.

"Just let me talk to her," he said, looking exhausted. "Five minutes. That’s all I need."

Harper glanced back at me.

I stood up and walked to the door.

When Ethan saw me, his lips parted. The calm, composed face I had known for two years was gone. His eyes were bloodshot.

"Chloe," his voice was hoarse. "I know you saw those posts. I know you hate me."

He had never spoken to me in this tone before.

"I planned the Iceland trip. And Thanksgiving too," he said. "But it’s not what you think. Maya helped me out a ton with work back then. My parents were the ones who suggested inviting her to Thanksgiving, and the Iceland trip was actually a company retreat with some extra days tacked on."

He paused, as if waiting for me to argue.

I said nothing.

"I know you're angry." He took a half-step forward, reaching out to take my hand. I stepped back, leaving his hand hanging in mid-air. "I can change. I swear. Starting right now, I’ll do whatever you want. If you want me to block Maya, I’ll block her. If you want me to get a new job, I’ll hand in my resignation."

Standing beside him, Harper said coldly, "You can block her right now. Pull out your phone and block her in front of us."

He froze.

"I’m not talking about these superficial gestures," he said, bypassing Harper to look directly at me. "Chloe, we’ve been together for two years. Are you really going to throw all of that away over this?"

*Two years.*

He always used those two years to guilt-trip me.

"I’ll change," his voice dropped even lower. "I promise, from this day on, you are my number one priority. If you want to see the ocean, we’ll go tomorrow. If you want to see the Aurora, I’ll book the flights tonight."

It sounded incredibly sincere.

If I had heard this three months ago, a month ago, or even last week, I probably would have believed him. I had spent the last two years being exceptionally good at believing him.

But not today.

Because right as he was saying "I promise," the phone in his pocket lit up.

I couldn't see the full caller ID, but I saw the first letter.

*M.*

He didn't answer it. He probably didn't even notice. But that letter glowed in his pocket for two seconds before going dark again.

Even as he was begging me and promising change, she was calling him.

I suddenly wanted to laugh.

Not a sad laugh, but a genuine, hysterical laugh at how absurd this whole situation was.

"Ethan."

"I'm listening."

"Shouldn't you answer that call in your pocket first?"

He went stiff. He looked down at his pocket, his face turning pale.

Harper leaned against the doorframe, saying nothing, but her smile was cold enough to freeze water.

He pressed the power button to silence the phone.

"It’s not important. Chloe, listen to me—"

"No need." I pulled the door, signaling him to step back. "Go home, Ethan."

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing anymore."

I shut the door in his face.

Harper looked at me, keeping silent.

I walked back to the couch and sat down.

My phone sat on the coffee table, its screen dark and clean.

I picked it up, opened my Notes app, and started typing.

My very first sentence was: *On the night I had a 102.5°F fever and asked if he could come over, I could hear his video game music in the background of the call.*

Harper glanced over my shoulder.

"What are you writing?"

"I don't know," I said, my fingers flying across the screen. "I just felt like writing."