Life isn’t fair, sweetie, and it ain’t changing the rules for you. I want Mom here, now, with Cora so I can demand them both to explain why life seems fair to everyone else but me.

“Why isn’t he here to do this himself?” I ask bluntly.

“Men are cowards, Marnie. He didn’t want to hurt you.”

But he is hurting me. Suddenly desperate for the bathroom, I rise weakly from my chair. My no frowns, no fears, no tears policy slips as my eyes water and the horror of my situation compounds. I excuse myself and speed-hobble down the hall, not getting there fast enough. It takes as long as it takes.

Inside the bathroom, I turn on the cold water, splashing my face with it. Three days ago, Ashe texted all day with a series of can’t-waits.

Can’t wait to see you.

Hold you.

Kiss you.

Tell you about my trip.

Talk about a new wedding.

How could he change his mind so fast, like I’m a broken fever or a stomach virus that’s finally been purged? What happened to him loving me forever and wanting me always? This doesn’t sound like Ashe. In our early days, he fought for us with Cora. She thought he should focus on the store, not the staff. She had other ideas for him than someone like me.

Then, I wonder if this is her, not him, and a tiny ray of hope emerges.

I slip my phone out of my pocket, staring at his last messages. I text him.

Cora’s here. She says you want to break up. Is this true?

The ellipsis appears. Disappears. And finally appears again.

Sorry.

Everything inside me crumbles and turns to dust. I’m no longer Marnie Strange. I’m her dried bones, withering and lifeless. He’s drained all the love and cheer right out of me. It’s a small mercy that he responded at all. At least, he didn’t leave me wondering by ghosting me altogether.

I return to Cora, head held high and eyes dry. They need me to be the usual Marnie—strong, steady, and forgiving. And though Grady’s probably right about my tendency to be too nice, it’s the only way I’ll get through this. I need that Marnie, too.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“Yes, sorry. The medications don’t play nice with my stomach.”

“You poor thing,” she coos, her voice like sandpaper.

I pull the engagement ring off my finger and set it on the table between us. She takes it, dropping it carelessly into her Louis Vuitton.

“Was there anything else?” I ask, even-toned.

Her fake sympathy flashes in a weak smile. “Under the circumstances, we think it’s best that you don’t return to Sunny’s.”