Chapter 2

I sat on the couch until two in the morning.

Only a floor lamp lit the living room.

On the coffee table lay a photo of my mom and me, taken on her birthday last year.

In the picture, her eyes were crinkled into crescents from smiling, holding the scarf I'd given her.

I'd spent a month picking out that scarf. It cost half my monthly salary.

When Ethan saw the price tag, he'd said, "You're buying her something this expensive? She won't even have anywhere to wear it."

I didn't respond. I bought it anyway.

My mom was so happy when she received it, but she never wore it out.

She said she was saving it for an "important day."

Like today.

I stared at her smiling face in the photo, feeling my throat tighten.

I got up and went to my bedroom, pulling an old tin box from the top shelf of the closet.

Inside were things from Ethan and me over the years.

Movie ticket stubs, amusement park passes, birthday cards he'd written.

At the very bottom was a yellowed sticky note he'd slipped into my backpack in college: "Once I graduate and start earning money, the first thing I'll do is marry you, so your mom won't worry."

The handwriting was messy, but every word pressed hard into the paper.

I stuck the note back in the box and closed the lid.

My phone buzzed again.

A message from Ethan:

"Did you get home? Get some sleep."

I stared at the message without replying.

Five minutes later, he sent another:

"Still mad?"

"I booked an Italian restaurant for tomorrow lunch. I'll take your mom. You come too."

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Finally, I typed: "No need."

He replied quickly:

"What's wrong? Are you really angry?"

"Rachel, I know I didn't do well today, but you have to understand---Serena's project is really important."

"I'm at a critical point in my career right now. Once I get through this phase, I'll give you all my time, okay?"

I didn't respond.

I closed the chat window and scrolled to a contact labeled "Mrs. White."

Three months ago, my mom had asked someone to set me up on a blind date. This was the mother of that potential match.

I'd refused immediately back then.

My mom had said, "Just keep the contact. You never know."

I'd saved it but never planned to use it.

Now, I sent Mrs. White a message:

"Hello Mrs. White, this is Rachel. About what we discussed before---would that still be possible?"

After sending the message, I turned off my phone.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

My mind kept replaying my mom's expression today.

And the perfume smell on Ethan's jacket.

It wasn't the brand I used.

The next morning, when I woke up, I had over a dozen messages on my phone.

Ethan had sent seven or eight, ranging from "good morning" to "why are you ignoring me" to "what's wrong with you."

Mrs. White had replied:

"Of course! The young man is wonderful. How about meeting this weekend?"

And one from my mom:

"Rachel, are you okay?"

I replied to my mom first:

"I'm fine. Don't worry."

Then Mrs. White:

"Yes, thank you Mrs. White."

Finally, I opened Ethan's chat window.

His latest message was from ten minutes ago:

"Rachel, aren't you being too childish?"

"I already apologized. What more do you want?"

I stared at those two sentences, my finger hovering over the screen for a long time.

In the end, I typed: "Let's break up."