Dashiell Ethan Montclair came two weeks early, practically in the parking lot of the post office where Sutton had just dropped their check in the mail. Thank goodness Ethan saw her double over as she exited the building with their PO box mail in her hand. He managed to get her to the hospital with fifteen minutes to spare.

Dashiell was always in a hurry.

Ethan complained the name sounded like a hero from one of Sutton’s novels. She explained, in unending detail, why she’d chosen the name. After Hammett, of course. A crime writer. A man’s writer. A man’s man, Hammett. For heaven’s sake, Ethan, you call yourself a writer?

After the nearly inauspicious beginnings to the child’s life, Ethan caved. Whatever Sutton wanted, Sutton got. That was their deal.

Dashiell was an adorable baby. All fat cheeks and pink lips and deep blue-gray eyes, just like his mother. He was a watcher, quiet and calm, easily amused, with a gurgling, contagious laugh, always willing to go down for a nap so Sutton or Ethan could work. Sutton kept him in a basket on the floor next to her desk, like a cat, or a dog. She’d tap the edge with her foot, set it to rocking, and Dashiell would lie content and sated in his nest.

Ethan adjusted to their new life faster than Sutton. She was—admittedly—a selfish woman. She liked their old life. Parties at night, late-sleeping mornings, sex anytime they wanted, travel galore. Liked not having to answer to anyone, not having a boss, nor having a get up and leave the house and sit in traffic and make jokes at the watercooler about last night’s Dancing with the Stars job.

They had freedom still, yes, and now they had a child, which made Ethan happier than anything before.

But after the “Summer of Acclaim,” as Ethan called it in his most condescending voice, things were a bit rocky.

Rocky. What a silly term to describe a marriage on the rocks. Tumultuous was a better description. Stormy. Torturous. Of or relating to Tantos, the pits of hell.

I got that bruise when I walked into the refrigerator.

Of course you’re sorry and it will never happen again.

Yes, I still love you.

That phone call? Just some fan, wanting to meet for coffee. They’re so very aggressive these days.

They built a house, a life, on lies.

There were good moments. Great moments. Calm moments.

Croissants with butter in bed, flakes getting on the sheets.

Walks along the river, with blossoms from the trees raining down in the breeze.