Chapter 1: Borrowed Vows and Broken Beginnings

When I was twenty-three, I married Derek Thompson.

My palms were damp inside borrowed lace gloves, and the organist kept missing notes, but I told myself it was just nerves. The wedding was small, just close family and a handful of friends gathered at a white clapboard chapel outside Cincinnati. The spring air smelled of lilacs and new beginnings, though I remember thinking how the sunlight on the stained glass seemed colder than it should have. I wore my mother’s pearl earrings, and Derek’s hand felt steady but somehow far away when he slid the ring onto my finger. His fingers were warm, but his eyes barely met mine. I searched for a spark, found only my own reflection in the gold band.

He was always distant and reserved. He married me mostly because I was agreeable enough to help him keep up appearances with his family.

At backyard barbecues, the grill smoked up the whole block, Derek’s uncle flipping burgers while kids shrieked over a cornhole game. He’d introduce me with a polite arm around my shoulder, then drift away to laugh with his cousins by the fire pit. Sometimes I’d catch him watching the dark woods beyond the backyard, his expression unreadable. I always knew—on some level, I was more a stand-in than a soulmate.

Everyone knew he already had someone he could never get over—a woman he’d loved once, the one who glowed in his memory like the moon you can’t ever reach.

There was always a hush when her name surfaced at Thanksgiving or when Derek’s mom flipped through old photo albums in the living room. It was as if Natalie Brooks’s shadow stretched through their conversations, her laughter echoing just out of earshot. The smell of pumpkin pie and burnt coffee hung in the air, but all I could taste was her absence.

When she came back, it was only a matter of time before I’d have to step down as Mrs. Thompson.

It felt like the entire town of Maple Heights braced itself, waiting for a scene straight out of a soap opera. I’d see neighbors peering over their fences when I walked our dog, as if expecting news of our split any day.

Eventually, his beloved returned, and I sensibly suggested we get a divorce.

I remember sitting at the kitchen island, coffee gone cold between my hands, the house silent except for the hum of the fridge. I cleared my throat and said it as gently as I could.

He smiled coolly. "Alright. If that’s what you want."

He sounded so detached, you’d think we were just discussing splitting the last slice of pizza. But there was a flicker in his eyes—something I’d never seen before, and maybe never would again.

After that day, we didn’t speak for a long time.

He moved out, leaving most of his things behind—books, some old trophies, the battered guitar he never played anymore. The silence in the condo felt heavier every night, as if the walls themselves missed the sound of him setting his keys down.

Until word of my engagement started making the rounds.

News travels fast in Maple Heights. Someone posted a blurry photo of me and Ryan on the courthouse steps, and before I knew it, the phone started buzzing like a hornet’s nest.

That night, he called me thirteen times.

The first call was just two words: "Congratulations."

His voice was clipped, almost sarcastic, like he was daring me to answer back. I let it go to voicemail, heart pounding in my chest.

My thumb hovered over the screen, pulse racing. What if he was calling to beg? What if he was calling to say goodbye?

By the thirteenth call, I couldn’t take it anymore. "What exactly do you want to say?"

I picked up, voice trembling, the clock glowing 1:13 a.m. on my nightstand. He bit his cigarette, voice low and muffled. "Is he richer than me? Does he treat you better than I did? Do you really want to marry him?"

I could hear the soft exhale of smoke and the clink of his wedding ring on a glass. For a moment, the years seemed to collapse between us.