Chapter 2

A week later, Ethan did something strange. He tried to be kind.

He came home early, his arms full of groceries. Spices I recognized from my mother' s kitchen in New Orleans. Andouille sausage, shrimp, okra.

"I'm cooking for you tonight," he announced, a rare, almost gentle smile on his face.

I watched him, suspicious. For three years, he' d never so much as made toast. His kitchen was a showroom, not a workspace.

He fumbled with the ingredients, his movements clumsy but determined. He was making gumbo. My gumbo. The dish I' d told him stories about, the one that tasted like home.

For a moment, a stupid, fragile part of me felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he was trying. Maybe he felt guilty.

He spent hours on it. When it was finally done, he ladled a bowl for me, the aroma filling the sterile apartment with a ghost of my past life.

It tasted almost right.

I was about to thank him, to let that flicker of hope grow, when he pulled out his phone. He took a picture of the bowl, his thumb tapping away at the screen.

"How does it look?" he asked, not looking at me.

"It looks good, Ethan."

"Great." He smiled, a genuine, triumphant smile. He held up his phone so I could see the screen. A text to Chloe.

The picture of the gumbo was there. Underneath it, his message: Practiced on the charity case. Ready to make it for my real girl tomorrow.

The hope died instantly, replaced by a familiar, hollow ache.

I was just a test subject. A practice run for the girl he actually valued.

The gumbo in my mouth turned to ash. I pushed the bowl away.

"I' m not hungry," I said, my voice flat.

He didn' t even notice. He was already typing again, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone, a smile playing on his lips as he talked to his "real girl."