Inside, she knew the scene by heart. Sam would be pacing the bedroom carpet, running his hands through his hair, rehearsing the same apology he’d given a hundred times before. I was stressed. You were working too much. It didn’t mean anything.
Emma looked past him. On the nightstand was a photo of them from last summer—sunburned noses, tangled legs on a beach blanket. She’d been so happy then. So blind.
His jaw tightened. A flicker of the old anger—the one he saved for when his charm failed. “So what? You’re just gonna walk? After three years?”
She pulled away from the curb, left the flickering lamp in the rearview, and drove toward a morning that didn’t have his name on it.