I’d just hit send when Ethan slammed on the brakes. My head snapped forward, cracking against the headrest of the passenger seat.
"Ethan!" Chloe squealed, clutching her seatbelt.
My phone, which had been resting on my lap, clattered to the floor by Ethan’s feet. Without looking, he scooped it up, rolled down his window, and flung it out onto the freeway.
"If you can’t hold onto your damn phone, you don’t deserve to have one!" he snapped, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror, hard and impatient.
I watched in the side mirror as a semi-truck swerved, its massive tires obliterating the device into glittering dust. A strange peace settled over me. All our memories, the arguments, the begging texts, the photos I’d cherished—gone.
"Okay," I said, my voice flat. "I don’t want it."
He blinked, surprise flickering across his face at my tone. It lasted a second. Then Chloe sniffled, and his attention snapped back to her. He reached over, squeezing her hand. "It’s okay, honey. Just a little scare. You’re safe."
There was a time I would have lunged over the seat. I’d have cried, "Don’t touch her! She’s not your girlfriend, I am!" It would have ended with him yelling, calling me crazy and insecure before storming off to calm Chloe down.
But today, I was just so… tired. A deep, bone-aching weariness that made everything seem far away.
We dropped Chloe off at her trendy loft. Ethan put the car in park, got out, and opened her door. He leaned in, carefully unbuckling her seatbelt as if she were made of glass. "Easy does it," he murmured. He then lifted her out—she wasn’t even wearing heels—and carried her to her front door.
Over his shoulder, she shot me a look. A triumphant, glittering smirk that said, *He’s mine.*
I looked away.
He didn’t come back. Minutes ticked by. The sun began to dip below the city skyline, painting everything in melancholic oranges and purples. My stomach growled. I had no phone, no wallet. Just the stupid, uncomfortable bridesmaid-ish dress I’d worn for the shoot.
Finally, I got out and walked to Chloe’s door. I knocked. And knocked.
After what felt like an eternity, the door swung open. Ethan stood there, wearing a frilly pink apron with a cartoon bear on it. The smell of garlic and herbs wafted out.
My brain short-circuited. In five years, I’d never once seen Ethan Carter so much as boil water. He claimed the kitchen was "my domain."
"Lauren?" he said, irritation lining his brow. "What are you still doing here?"
I opened my mouth. *Were you ever going to come back? Do you remember I almost died today? Do you even care?* The questions piled up, then dissolved into ash before they could leave my tongue. What was the point?
From inside, Chloe’s voice, thick with faux tears, called out, "Ethan! The oil spattered! My arm!"
He was gone before she finished the sentence, sprinting back toward the kitchen. "I’m coming, baby!"
I stared at the empty space where he’d been, then slowly, quietly, pulled the door shut.
It took me three hours to walk home to our Brooklyn brownstone. My feet were raw and blistered by the time I stumbled through the front door at midnight.
"Miss Lauren!" Maria, our housekeeper, hurried over, her face pinched with worry. "Mr. Ethan called about an hour ago. He said you must call him the moment you get in."
