Chapter 12

Just as I'd imagined, Ethan intended to marry me.

The wedding was put on the calendar.

Once Margaret heard the news, she insisted on seeing me in person.

Ethan used his vacation time to fly us both abroad to visit her.

The whole journey, I couldn't stop thinking about that unanswered call, and the guilt made my palms sweat. By the time we actually walked in and I saw her, my throat seized up completely. I opened my mouth to greet her and nothing came out.

But Margaret didn't mind in the slightest. She took my hand and talked without stopping, as warm and close as she'd always been.

Before long, she invented a reason to send Ethan out of the room.

I felt it coming. The real conversation was about to start. My throat went tight.

I stared at the floor, unable to look at her.

"Zoe."

She reached out and caught my hands in hers.

"Ethan's not here. You can be honest with me. Do you genuinely want to marry him?"

The question came out of nowhere, strange and blunt.

My head snapped up, straight into her gaze.

Those eyes — so like Ethan's, yet softer, deeper — were full of something tangled and troubled.

I hesitated, then nodded.

"Are you sure?" she pressed. "He didn't coerce you into this?"

"He didn't."

She exhaled — visibly — and some of the tension left her face. But she still held my hands.

"Marriage is enormous. Whatever the circumstances, you have to think it through carefully. Otherwise..." She paused and sighed, her eyes going damp. "Otherwise I'll never be able to face your mother."

The mention of my mother stung. The air turned heavy between us.

I reassured her again and again that I would think it through properly, that I wouldn't be swept up in the moment.

Only then did she, reluctantly, let go.

But her expression made it clear she still had things to say.

"Margaret?"

I tried.

She wavered. Starting to speak, stopping, then starting again.

Outside, the sound of Ethan's car reached us — the engine a clean, precise sound in the quiet.

Something seemed to click into place for her. Like she'd made a decision.

She glanced toward the sound, then seized my hands again, hard.

"There's a safe in his study. The code is 83313. Open it and look inside before you decide whether or not to marry him."

The whole flight home, I couldn't keep my mind still.

Ethan glanced at me once, then again.

"Are you carsick? Airsick?"

I made a vague sound of agreement.

He reached over and pressed my head against his shoulder.

"Sleep, then."

From that angle, I had a perfect view of his profile.

Clear-cut. Warm. The kind of face that made you feel safe without knowing why.

I thought about it. Decided not to say anything.

The next day, while he was at work, I pushed open the study door and stepped inside carefully.

In the drawer Margaret had described, I found the safe.

I held my breath and typed in the code.

The door clicked open.

Inside was a phone — an old model, years out of date. But it was charged. Someone had been keeping it charged.

My heart started to knock against my ribs in a way I couldn't account for, as if something was already guiding me.

I picked it up.

It still had power.

I opened the photos.

And went completely still.

The whole album was me.

Me doing homework, chewing on a pen, sleeping, messing around with friends at school... Dozens upon dozens of moments I'd never noticed, never registered in my own memory. All of it captured. All of it kept.

By Ethan.

From long ago, right up to now.

My pulse hammered up through my throat. I pressed several slow breaths in and out before I could steady myself.

Then I looked back into the safe.

There was more. I pulled everything out, piece by piece.

A cheap keychain souvenir I'd brought back from a school trip.

A handwritten wish note with both of our names on it, the letters uneven.

A ginkgo leaf I'd picked up from the pavement on a walk and pressed into his hand on a whim.

A pencil sketch I'd done of him when I had nothing better to do.

All of it sealed in clear self-adhesive bags. Preserved with care.

My gaze came to rest on the largest bag.

Inside was a diary — the kind with a combination lock, pale and covered in old patterns, the reward I'd gotten for placing first in my year in middle school.

I'd thought it was ugly and handed it to Ethan without a second thought.

I couldn't believe I still remembered the code after all this time.

I entered the four digits. The little plastic clasp sprang open.

The pages were full of color, the paper slightly yellowed.

Ethan's handwriting — all those sharp, purposeful strokes — looked wildly out of place on something so childish, so vivid.

I turned the pages. One by one.

I read things he had never once said to me out loud.

Some pages had no text at all. Just my name.

My name, written over and over, spreading across every inch of blank space.

The wanting rose from the paper like heat, wrapped up in something breathless and consuming, and hit me in the face.

My blood rushed up to my head, then drained back all at once, leaving me alternately burning and cold.

I finally understood the worry in Margaret's eyes.

And that warning she'd passed on: I told Ethan. He is not allowed to do anything you haven't agreed to. He is not allowed to hurt you. If he does, I will never forgive him.

A love this heavy, this consuming — it would terrify anyone.

But Margaret couldn't have known.

We were exactly alike, Ethan and I.

Even more than that — I felt the thrill of recognition.

Oh. He isn't what he pretends to be.

I liked him even more.

Early evening. The usual time.

The front door opened, and Ethan called out, "I'm home."

No answer.

He frowned and walked inside.

The next second, he visibly froze.

There I was — right on the sofa, paging through that colorful, ridiculous diary.

Silence fell completely.

It lasted only a few seconds.

Then Ethan composed himself with a speed that was almost impressive.

"You found it... My mother told you, didn't she.

"I should've known. She's opened that safe before — nothing else explains those strange things she said, or why she kept insisting I see a therapist..."

He loosened his watchband and dropped it on the armrest. Then he crossed the room toward me, slow and unhurried.

The lamp behind him cast his shadow long across the floor and swallowed me in it.

He stopped right in front of me.

Leaned forward. Both hands pressed to the cushion on either side of my body.

I had never seen his face look like that before. Something dark and dangerous. Something damp and close.

His eyes weren't warm anymore. They were full of something undiluted — thick, low, unmistakable — and it was aimed entirely at me.

"Are you afraid?"

"Not at all," I said.

I put my hand on his shoulder.

"But tell me something. If you've wanted me this much for this long —

"What was the blind date about? Say one thing I don't like, and this wedding is off."

He laughed, quiet and low.

He turned his head and pressed his lips to my hand.

"There never was a blind date. There was only ever you."