Chapter 4

Hanging on the wall, right above our bed, was a massive wedding photo.

It wasn' t of me and Olivia. It was her and Mark. They were standing nose to nose, smiling, looking deeply into each other' s eyes. It was a professional shot, expensive and glossy.

Olivia followed me into the room, her voice rushed. "Oh, that. It' s just for show. Mark' s family is very traditional. We had to take some photos to appease them. It doesn' t mean anything, Ethan. He' s just staying here until he gets back on his feet."

I didn' t look at her. I just stared at the picture. My silence seemed to make her anxious.

"Ethan, please," she said, reaching for my arm.

I flinched away from her touch like I' d been burned.

Suddenly, Mark was in the doorway, his face crumpled. "I' m sorry," he whimpered, tears already welling in his eyes. "I' ll leave. I' m causing too much trouble."

Olivia immediately rushed to his side, her arm around his shoulder. "No, Mark, don' t be silly. You' re not leaving. Ethan' s not angry. Right, Ethan?"

She looked at me, her eyes pleading.

A bitter, sarcastic smile twisted my lips. "Of course. Why would I be angry? After all, this is his home now."

I turned and walked out of the room.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Olivia' s voice was sharp, chasing after me. "Are you jealous? After everything I' ve done for you, you can' t show a little compassion for my oldest friend?"

A loud crash came from the bedroom. Olivia gasped and ran back inside.

I followed, stopping at the door. Mark was on the floor, surrounded by the shattered glass of a water cup. He was holding his wrist, which was bleeding.

"I just want to die," he sobbed. "I' m such a burden."

Olivia knelt beside him, picking up a shard of glass. She looked up at me, her face contorted with fury.

"Are you happy now? Look what you' ve done! You' re so heartless, Ethan! Have you forgotten what it feels like to lose someone? Have you forgotten how your father died?"

The mention of my father, who had taken his own life, was a low blow. It was a deep, private wound she had just ripped open and poured salt into.

I reeled back. The anger I' d been suppressing vanished, replaced by a hollow ache.

"I' m not angry," I said, my voice quiet and dead. "And I didn' t eat dinner because there was seafood in it. I' m severely allergic."

She glanced down at my wrist, which I hadn' t even realized I' d been scratching. A red rash was starting to form. A flicker of guilt crossed her face, but it was quickly erased by Mark' s renewed cries.

"My wrist hurts so much, Olivia."

She scrambled to her feet. "I' m taking you to the hospital."

She helped him up, half-carrying him out of the apartment, leaving me alone with the shattered glass and the bleeding from a wound much deeper than the one on Mark' s wrist.