One.
Two.
Three.
A strange silence formed between all of us, despite the noise of the airport continuing around us.
“Emily,” Graham said, but my name came out like a warning.
The woman looked at him slowly.
“You know her?”
I almost laughed.
It was not a funny sound inside me, but it rose anyway, bitter and sharp.
“Yes,” I said before Graham could answer. “He knows me.”
Her gaze narrowed. She was beautiful in the polished way people became beautiful when they had never had to choose between diapers and electricity. Dark hair, flawless makeup, skin untouched by sleepless nights. She studied me as if trying to place me in Graham’s life and finding no acceptable category.
“I’m Caroline Vale,” she said, her voice cooling. “Graham’s fiancée.”
The word landed harder than I expected.
Fiancée.
For eighteen months, I had told myself I was past him. I had told myself the worst of the pain was over, that nothing connected to Graham Whitaker could still wound me unless I allowed it.
But some words were knives even when you saw them coming.
