Chapter 2

When we got to the apartment, Sofia' s suitcases were already in the entryway. I stared at them, confused.

"What' s this?"

Carter didn' t look at me. He was helping Sofia with her coat. "Sofia' s lease fell through. She has nowhere to go. She' s staying with us for a while."

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Staying with us? Where?"

"She can take the master bedroom. You can move your things into the guest room."

He gestured to the small room we used as a home office. It barely fit a desk and a small, uncomfortable futon.

"Carter, that' s our bedroom."

"And Sofia is our guest. Don' t make this difficult, Amy."

I looked from his cold face to Sofia' s triumphant little smile. I felt nothing. Just a deep, profound emptiness. I didn' t argue. I didn' t yell.

I just nodded. "Okay."

I turned and walked to the master bedroom. I started taking my clothes out of the closet, folding them into neat piles. I could feel Carter' s eyes on me, surprised by my easy compliance.

He came into the room and tossed his credit card on the bed.

"Here. Go buy yourself something nice tomorrow. Something better than a Chanel bag."

He thought this was a tantrum. He thought money would fix it. I didn' t even look at the card.

Later that night, I lay on the lumpy futon in the office, listening to the sounds from my own bedroom. Laughter. Carter' s deep voice, then Sofia' s higher-pitched giggle.

Sofia walked into the living room, wearing one of Carter' s button-down shirts. Nothing else. She saw me watching from the office doorway.

She walked over to Carter, who was on the couch, and sat on his lap.

"Why is she being so quiet, Carter? It' s kind of creepy."

"She' s just pouting," he said, his voice muffled as he kissed her neck. "She' ll get over it. She always does."

Sofia tilted her head back, showing off the fresh, dark marks on her skin. "You know, I' m almost jealous. Amy got to have you all to herself for seven years. Did you cook for her? You always made the best pancakes."

"I' ll make you pancakes every morning," he promised, his voice thick with affection.

I closed the office door.

He never cooked for me. Not once. Not even the time I had the flu so bad I couldn' t get out of bed for three days. I had asked for a glass of water, and he told me to get it myself because he was busy with a conference call.

His love was conditional. It was an action, a service, a thing he performed for the person he truly cared about.

And it was never me.