Now, more than a decade on, being with Brett had become the easy, safe option—which for a time had suited Cass just fine. They had maintained a long-distance relationship when she went away to college and he stayed close to home and got his Realtor’s certificate. He had suggested moving in together once she graduated, but she had wanted time to save up for a house and focus on her goal of one day running her family’s bakery. Then he had started talking marriage—and Cass had waited to feel what she knew you were supposed to at the prospect of spending a lifetime with someone: excited, in love. Instead, she realized she had fallen out of love with him at some point along the way. When Brett proposed, she should have said she couldn’t marry him—even if every single person in town expected it.

But she hadn’t. She had stalled, asking him for time to think. And her time was up.

As she marched toward the open-house address, Cass tried to tell herself that Brett would feel as certain as she did that marriage was not the right path for them. That they had outgrown each other. This would simply be a fast ripping off of the bandage.

Cass had reached the house, a Victorian set back from the street, its butter yellow–painted brick facade luminous in the dark thanks to the twinkling Christmas lights wrapped around the porch’s railing and lining the eaves. There was a small but beautifully decorated pine tree on the front porch, no doubt a Brett addition for the open house.

She climbed the steps, but when she knocked on the door she found it slightly open. Inside, what struck Cass first was that she didn’t smell Brett’s signature chocolate chip cookies—which were from a slice-and-bake package even though he told people he made them “from scratch”—that accompanied every one of his open houses.

But she did smell something: simmering garlic, roasting tomatoes, and fresh basil. What was he doing making his marinara sauce? It was Brett’s one reliable dinner, and he had made it for Cass for every special occasion in their relationship.

“Hello?” she called out.

“Hey, hon, I’m in the kitchen. Come on through. Don’t forget to take off your shoes.”

“Already did,” she replied. The way he called her “hon” made her stomach wiggle in an unpleasant way. This was going to be harder than she thought. He had been in her life a long time, and they had helped each other through a lot—including the loss of her beloved grandparents, both from illness in the same year. She had to get this right.

The anxious feeling only increased as she passed through the hallway into the kitchen. The table was set with already-lit candles, and the lights had been dimmed to what Brett would call a “romantic level.” There were wineglasses and an open wine bottle in the middle of the table. Her favorite red, a Barolo. There was also a fresh bouquet of peonies, which Brett knew she loved and were difficult to procure in Starlight Peak in winter, draped over one of the plates. Oh no.