“No.”
Neither of us spoke for several moments. Then she looked down at her coffee.
“If Ryan still hates me,” she said quietly, “I understand.”
The sentence fit none of the scenarios I had imagined. Hates her? If she had been an ex, maybe. If she had broken his heart, perhaps. But then why tattoo her face onto his shoulder? GetLanguage Courses
“How do you know him?” I asked.
A sad smile crossed her face. “I knew him a long time ago.”
That was not an answer. Before I could ask more, she stood.
“I should go.”
“Wait.”
“Who are you?”
For a moment I thought she might finally explain. Instead, she shook her head.
“That’s a conversation you need to have with your husband.”
Then she turned and walked away.
The entire drive home, my thoughts spiraled. Ex-girlfriend. Childhood friend. The daughter of family friends. Familylaw advice
Because none of those explanations fit all the pieces. Not the tattoo. Not the lies. And certainly not the fear I had seen in her eyes.
By the time I reached our driveway, I was worked up. Ryan was sitting on the porch. The moment he saw me, he smiled.
I did not smile back.
His expression changed immediately. “What happened?”
I walked directly toward him.
“I met her.”
For a second, Ryan simply stared at me. Then all the color drained from his face. It was not guilt. It was not panic over being discovered.
It was fear.
The exact same fear I had seen in the bakery.
“Who?” he asked.
“You know who.”
Ryan looked as though I had struck him. For several seconds he remained silent.
Then, “You talked to her?”
I folded my arms.
“Interesting choice of words.” TakeSociology Courses
He ignored the comment.
“Did she seem okay?”
The question hit me like a slap. Not “What did she say?” Not “How did you find her?” Not “What happened?”
“Did she seem okay?”
Ryan rubbed both hands over his face. He looked exhausted, defeated, almost resigned.
“Her name is Sloane.”
At least now she had a name.
“Who is she?”
Again.
This time Ryan looked away. For a long while I thought he would not answer. Then he quietly said:
The words stopped me cold. Not loved. Not lost.
Hurt.
A strange feeling settled inside my chest. The story I had spent twelve years creating suddenly began to collapse.
“What does that mean?”
Ryan remained silent. Then he stood.
“Come inside.”
We sat at the kitchen table, the same table where we had celebrated birthdays, paid bills, and planned vacations. Yet suddenly it felt as though I was sitting across from a stranger.
“When I was 16, my dad was one of the most respected people in town.”
I frowned. His father had died years before I met Ryan, and everything I had ever heard about him had been positive. Teacher. Coach. Volunteer. One of those men everyone admired.
Ryan laughed bitterly.
“That’s the version everyone remembers.”
A knot formed in my stomach.
“Sloane accused him of something.” He stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “She said he’d crossed a line he never should have crossed.”
“What happened?”
Ryan looked directly at me.
“The town destroyed her.”
The words landed heavily.
