Chapter 2

When Matthew finally stumbled home after midnight, smelling of beer and someone else' s perfume, I pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, I didn' t make his coffee.

I didn' t lay out his favorite blue tie. I didn' t check my phone for a reminder to pick up his dry cleaning. I just got up, showered, and left for a walk.

When I got back, he was standing in the kitchen, scowling at the cold coffee machine.

"No coffee?" he asked, his voice tight with irritation.

"The machine is right there," I said, walking past him to the fridge.

He followed me. "What is this, Stella? Are you still mad about last night? I told you, it was work."

"I' m not mad," I said, pouring myself a glass of water. It was the truth. I wasn' t mad. I was empty.

"This is so petty. You' re punishing me because I had to work on our anniversary. Do you have any idea the pressure I' m under? I don' t have time for these little melodramas of yours."

He disappeared into the bedroom and came back holding a small, elegantly wrapped box. He tossed it onto the kitchen counter. It skidded and stopped near the sink.

"Here. Happy anniversary."

I didn' t move. He ripped it open himself, pulling out a generic designer scarf, the kind you buy at an airport gift shop when you forget something important.

"See? I remembered," he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

I looked at the scarf, then at him. "Thank you."

His birthday was the following week. He got a notification from Venmo in the morning.

"$200. Happy Birthday."

He stormed into the living room where I was reading. "A Venmo? Seriously? What the hell is that?"

"You can buy whatever you want," I said, not looking up from my book. "It' s more efficient."

That night, I went out. My friend Molly, a journalist I' d known since college, had been begging me to get drinks for months. I' d always said no, citing Matthew' s unpredictable schedule.

This time, I said yes.

I came home late, the scent of wine and laughter clinging to my clothes. Matthew was waiting up, his face a thundercloud.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Out with Molly."

"You didn' t tell me you were going out."

"You didn' t ask," I replied, kicking off my heels. "And you were at a fundraiser. I didn' t want to bother you."

His anger was a palpable force in the room. "This isn' t you, Stella. This whole cold, distant act. It' s childish."

I just shrugged and walked to the bedroom. The fight had gone out of me, replaced by a strange, quiet resolve.

The next Saturday, I decided to clean out the hall closet, a task I' d been putting off for years. It was full of my old things, boxes I hadn' t opened since we moved from Iowa.

In the back, behind a stack of old textbooks, was a dusty portfolio box. My hands trembled slightly as I opened it. Inside was my manuscript, the novel I' d been working on for my MFA. And tucked inside the front cover was a letter.

The letterhead was from the prestigious Blackwood Writer' s Residency in Vermont. It was an acceptance letter. Dated five years ago.

I had deferred it, telling them I had a family matter to attend to. The family matter was Matthew. He' d just gotten the job offer in D.C., the big break he' d been working for. He' d told me it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He' d said, "We can' t pass this up, Stel. Your writing can be done anywhere. My career has to be here."

I had believed him. I had packed up my life, put my degree on hold, and followed him.

On a whim, I went to their website. The application portal for the next session was closing in two days.

I pulled out my old manuscript. I sat on the floor of the dusty closet and started reading. And then, I started typing.