Chapter 3

I woke up sick on a Tuesday.

It started with my stomach, a low, rolling nausea that felt like something was trying to climb out of me. By noon, my bones felt heavy and my skin felt thin. I told myself it was stress, lack of sleep, the way things had been between Sterling and me. I told myself a lot of things.

I bought the test on my lunch break.

The pharmacy on Atlantic was bright and clean, fluorescent lights that made everything look exposed. I found the family planning aisle and stood there, scanning the options like I was buying toothpaste. The woman next to me was comparing prices on prenatal vitamins. I wondered if she was the kind of person who did this with someone, or if she was here alone too.

I chose the digital one. Easier to read, the box said. Less room for doubt. I paid in cash and walked out with the small white box in my purse, next to my phone and my wallet and the sketchbook I never showed anyone.

I didn't open it.

For three days, I carried it around like a secret I was keeping from myself. It went from my purse to my nightstand to my gym bag, still sealed, still unopened. I was not ready to know. I was already carrying too much.

On Thursday night, I sat on the edge of the bathtub and stared at the box. The bathroom was quiet except for the radiator hissing against the wall. Sterling was working late—again. I ran my thumb over the plastic packaging, feeling the edges, the slight give of the seal. One tear and it would be done. One line or two.

I put it back in my bag.

***

Lara posted a story on Friday.

I saw it by accident, scrolling through Instagram while waiting for the subway. Two coffee cups on a small wooden table. No faces, no hands, just the cups sitting there like evidence. One was black, one was white with a delicate pattern around the rim. The caption read: 'grateful for the people who show up.'

I knew the cups. I knew the café. It was the little place two blocks from Sterling's firm, the one with the blue awning and the chairs that wobbled on the uneven sidewalk. The one he always said had the best oat milk latte in the city.

I stared at the image until the screen went dark. Then I opened it again.

The coffee cups sat there, innocent and damning. I could almost see the rest of the frame—Lara's hands, probably, or maybe just the corner of Sterling's sleeve. The story was already disappearing, fading into the algorithm's memory hole. But I had seen it. I had seen enough.

I did not call Sterling. I did not text him. I did not ask.

Instead, I opened my sketchbook.

I had not drawn in weeks, not since the showcase. But now, sitting on the edge of our bed with Lara's coffee cups burned into my retinas, I pulled out my pencils and began to work. The lines came fast and fluid, better than they had in months. I drew jackets, dresses, structures that felt like armor. I drew until my hand cramped and the sun went down. Four hours, maybe five. I filled pages I had never shown anyone, pages Sterling had never seen.

When I finished, I felt empty. Clean.

***

The farmers market was crowded on Sunday morning.

Sterling had canceled our routine again. Third week in a row. He'd left a note on the kitchen counter—*Lara emergency, sorry babe, make it up to you soon*—and I'd read it while the coffee machine hummed. I'd crumpled it up and thrown it away.

But I still went to the market.

I walked alone through the stalls, past the flower vendors and the cheese mongers and the old man who always gave me extra basil. I bought ingredients—eggs, pancetta, fresh parsley, good Parmesan. I bought them for myself, not for us. Not anymore.

When I got home, I made carbonara.

Sterling's recipe. The one he'd taught me on a rainy Sunday two years ago. I stood at the stove and followed every step—the pasta water salted until it tasted like the sea, the eggs cracked into a bowl with pepper, the pancetta rendered until it was crisp and golden. I made it perfectly. I made it alone.

I ate it standing at the kitchen counter.

One forkful at a time, I ate the entire portion. I didn't save any for Sterling. I didn't even think about saving any. It was mine. All of it.

I washed the dishes when I was done. I put away the leftovers. I wiped down the counters. I did all the things I was supposed to do, the things good girlfriends do.

But I didn't save him any dinner.

And for the first time in five years, that felt right.