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I never questioned my decision to marry Faith the day she turned eighteen.
She needed to get out of her situation at home and, at nineteen, I already knew everything about everything, so in my mind it made perfect sense. We’d been pals for years.
I loved her.
She had no idea.
But she was desperate for somebody to rescue her, and a marriage of convenience with me was a better—safer—choice than anything else she could find.
Since I lived away at college, no one even had to know. It worked great until the end of the semester.
And then she walked out.
And I let her.
I occasionally do some digging, just to check that she’s okay. And every now and then I think about the divorce papers I drew up but never sent.
Now she’s here. Literally on my doorstep. Begging me, once again, for help.
And I hate that I still love her.
Even after fourteen years.
