Elizabeth was driving. Her SUV hummed quietly on the highway, but the silence inside the car was deafening.
"Why don't you let me drive, honey?" Greg asked from the passenger seat. He reached for the radio dial.
Elizabeth slapped his hand away. "I like driving."
She remembered Chris driving. He drove with one hand on the wheel, relaxed, precise. He never braked hard. He anticipated the traffic flow like he could see the future.
Greg was a nervous passenger. He gasped every time she changed lanes.
"Can you sit in the back?" Elizabeth asked suddenly.
Greg looked at her, stunned. "What? The back? Like a chauffeur?"
"Just do it, Greg," she said, her voice tight. "My dry cleaning is in the front seat. I don't want it to wrinkle."
There was no dry cleaning. The seat was empty.
Greg stared at her, his face flushing red. "Liz, this is ridiculous."
"I have a migraine, Greg! Just get in the back!"
Greg unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed into the back seat while the car was stopped at a red light. He looked humiliated.
Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. The space next to her was empty. It felt better.
They pulled into the driveway. Chris's Lamborghini was parked at an angle in his driveway next door.
Chris was leaning against the hood. He was wearing a leather jacket, smoking a cigarette. He looked cool. Effortless.
Elizabeth slowed the SUV to a crawl. She stared at him through the windshield.
Chris looked up. He locked eyes with her. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just watched her, smoke curling from his lips.
It was a look of total indifference. And it burned her.
Greg tried to shrink down in the back seat, terrified Chris would see him.
Elizabeth pulled into her garage and turned off the engine. She sat there, gripping the wheel.
"He's nothing," she whispered. "He's just an ex."
Inside the house, Greg tried to salvage the night. He pulled a small blue box out of his pocket.
"I got you something in London," he said, handing it to her.
It was a Tiffany necklace. A silver heart. It was generic. Safe. Boring.
Elizabeth looked at it. She remembered the first anniversary with Chris. They had been broke. He had carved a bird out of a piece of driftwood he found on the beach. It was rough, imperfect, but he had spent weeks on it.
She had thrown it in the trash bin three days ago.
"It's beautiful, Greg," she said, her voice flat. She didn't put it on.
Greg tried to kiss her. She turned her head. His lips landed on her cheek, wet and clammy.
"I'm tired," she said. "I'm going to bed."
"Is this about him?" Greg yelled, finally snapping. "Is it about Chris?"
"Don't be stupid," Elizabeth said.
"You haven't looked at me since I got back! You put me in the back seat!"
"Goodnight, Greg," Elizabeth said, walking up the stairs. She left him standing in the kitchen, holding the Tiffany box.
