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PROLOGUE

Sunny Morris

Miami

March 25th

A chance encounter with the pettiest asshole I’ve ever met—or at least that’s what Andre used to be at Steele U six years ago—wasn’t what I expected to be the push I needed to face the reality of what I’d turned into.

I bumped into him while leaving the doctor’s office of all places, and couldn’t even find it in myself to wonder what he was doing in Miami since, last time I thought of him, I knew he found a job in Rhode Island, near our alma mater.

He looked me up and down in that derisive way that became familiar during my college years.

“You look older.”

“I know,” I answered, too tired for any of whatever this was.

He looked at me like I’d grown another head.

“Seriously? That’s all you have to say? What the hell happened to you?”

He walked away before I could tell him . . . what?

What the hell was I going to do, actually tell him what had happened to me?

It hit me like a sledgehammer then, and now, two hours later, I can’t get away from the truth anymore. It’s a neon sign in my mind that’s done being ignored.

I should be done with this. I should’ve been done long ago.

Standing in our walk-in closet, I have an open suitcase at my feet without remembering putting it there, but the part of me that’s taken control has clearly already decided.

I change out of the way-too-hot pants and uncomfortable shoes, the too-tight button-down, and I don’t avoid the mirror this time.

I think I need to see it, the effect this . . . fucked-up life has had on me.

I look puny, in the worst way, in the “I might actually be sick” way that had my doctor prescribing me Xanax and about twenty supplements only two hours ago.

I used to be full of life, of spark, of hunger. My ribs weren’t visible. I remember clearly enough that I had pecs and biceps . . . but I can’t quite remember when.

Now, nothing I do is enough, nothing I think is right, and all I hear is his voice telling me how ugly, stupid, and washed up I am.

I think about what it will be like when he gets home.

Henry.

The love of my life.

Right.

The joke of the fucking century.

I know how it’ll go if I’m here when he gets home from work. It happened already, years ago. I stayed long enough to give him the courtesy of a goodbye—or at least that’s what I’d told myself.

Why isn’t the house pristine?

It is, but he’ll find something that’s wrong. He’ll probably declare he actually hates the arrangement of roses I picked up even though I know, I know, he’s told me multiple times he likes how elegant they are, but he’ll twist my words and memories until I’m sure my brain is failing me.

Even when I know.