I stared at him. “Everything okay?” I managed to ask, though my voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.
“Yeah. Fine. Just… bar stuff.” He picked up his fork and began cutting his salmon, but I could see his hands trembling slightly. “How’s your dinner?”
How’s my dinner?I wanted to laugh, or scream, or throw my wine glass against the wall. Instead, I picked up my own fork and moved food around on my plate, pretending to eat while my entire world crumbled around me.
“It’s fine,” I said, because what else could I say?Actually, Sam, I just heard you tell Jack that you can’t marry me, and I’d like to know why.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of forced conversation and mechanical movements. Sam asked about my day at the clinic. I told him about seeing the usual cats and dogs. He mentioned ordering a new beer for the festival coming up. I nodded and made appropriate responses while internally screaming.
Other couples around us laughed and held hands and celebrated whatever milestones had brought them out tonight. I watched them with the detached fascination of an outsider, wondering if any of them had ever had their entire future ripped away as they ate.
When the server asked about dessert – the chocolate cake Sam had specifically mentioned when we were first seated – I shook my head and asked for the check instead.
“Not feeling well,” I murmured to Sam by way of explanation, though I couldn’t quite meet his eyes in case he would see the pain and anger in them.
Happy birthday to me.
The drive home was silent except for the radio playing softly in the background. I stared out the passenger window at the familiar streets of Willowbrook, the town that had become home, the place where I’d built a life with a man who apparently couldn’t stand the thought of marrying me.
When we pulled into our driveway, Sam finally spoke.
“Chloe, about tonight—”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly, because I couldn’t bear to hear whatever explanation he was about to offer.
“I wanted it to be special for you,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken.
Special.Like the engagement that was never going to happen. Like the future that existed only in my imagination.
“It was special,” I lied. “Dinner at Rosewood is always special.”
We sat in the truck for a moment longer, the engine ticking as it cooled, both of us apparently unwilling to go inside and face whatever came next.
“I love you,” Sam said suddenly, desperately, like he was trying to convince both of us.
I turned to look at him and saw something in his expression that I’d never seen before. Grief, maybe. Or regret. The face of a man who’d just broken something precious and wasn’t sure how to put it back together.
“I love you too,” I said, because it was true even though he’d just shattered my heart without even realizing it.
Inside the house, I went straight upstairs, citing my headache. It wasn’t entirely a lie – my head was pounding from holding back tears. Sam didn’t follow me up right away, and I was grateful. Any other birthday night would have ended differently. But not this one.
I changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed, turning toward the wall. When Sam finally came upstairs an hour later,moving quietly through our bedroom in the dark, I kept my breathing steady and even, pretending to be asleep. I felt him pause beside the bed, heard him sigh softly. Then he carefully slid under the covers.
His arm reached across the space and settled around my waist the way it always did, like his body couldn’t help seeking mine. I felt his breathing gradually even out as he fell asleep, but I lay awake staring at the dark ceiling, replaying his words over and over again.
As the clock on my nightstand ticked toward midnight, officially ending my birthday, I realized that the worst part wasn’t the broken dreams or the shattered expectations.
The worst part was that Sam clearly thought I was too fragile, too naive, or too unimportant to be included in whatever crisis had made him change his mind about marrying me.
He’d made the decision for both of us.
And I didn’t even know why.
Chapter 3
Sam - One Day After Chloe’s Birthday
Twenty-four hours ago, I’d never lied to Chloe. Now I couldn’t seem to stop. Last night, it had been “bar stuff” when she’d asked about the phone call. This morning I was slipping out of bed before dawn, careful not to wake her, scrawling a note on the kitchen counter - Had to go in early for a delivery. Kate couldn’t make it. Love you, S – and leaving before the guilt could stop me.
