I glance at him.
He’s known my son’s routine—and his mother’s—for years. He’s watched them from a distance and helped with everything they needed. I should feel grateful. Instead, my selfishness only allows jealousy and envy. My family became more his than it ever was mine.
“Think she’ll let us in for lunch?” Drako asks. “I’m starving.”
I turn to him, incredulous.
“I’m here, about to live the most important moment of my life, and you’re thinking about food?”
“What? Food matters in big moments too! It builds emotional memory,” he argues.
I scoff and turn back to the street.
I don’t have time to prepare.
The woman approaching at the end of the street stole the breath from my lungs. I stare without blinking.
Nina looks exactly as I remember—and yet different.
Instead of the flared dresses she always loved, she’s wearing jeans and a simple pink T-shirt.
Her dark hair is loose, longer than I’ve ever seen it, and the bangs that once framed her face is gone. Her body has more curves than it did five years ago. And she still walks the same way—with that innocent hint of sensuality.
“Who’s that next to Nina?” Apollo asks.
Only then does my vision widen enough to register the man at my wife’s side.
I frown as I watch them approach. Nina was talking to the stranger with a familiarity that made bile rise in my throat—and when he wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her into a hug, I think I’m going to have a heart attack.
Who the hell is this man? Why is he touching my wife? And what am I going to do about it?
Because one thing is certain: this needs to be dealt with. Immediately.
My breathing turns shallow as the image sharpens—both of them smiling—until they reach the opposite sidewalk, practically in front of our car. I open the door and get out.
The sound draws their attention. Nina looks at me.
I wait for a reaction. Any reaction. But she gives me nothing.
A flicker of surprise crosses her face—and vanishes too quickly to read. She ignores me and walks into the house, the man following close behind.
I blink at the closing door, frozen—unable to follow, unable to return to the car. I don’t have a plan. I just stand there, a few steps shy of the street’s center, waiting.
And maybe some angel—or demon—pities me, because minutes later the man leaves the house alone.
He barely reaches the end of the street when I cross the wooden fence, climb the small porch, and ring Nina’s doorbell.
She doesn’t answer.
I ring again. And again. And again. Nothing.
“I know you’re there, Nina,” I say. Silence. Minutes pass. “I saw you come in.”
I lean my forehead against the door and draw a deep breath. The mail slot rattles when my head bumps it, and I pull back just enough to push it open with my index finger.
The view inside is minimal—but enough.
I see her.
