The accident happened on a Thursday. Julian was cooking her dinner in his temporary penthouse apartment—all glass and light and the smell of seared scallops. Lila was on his couch, her phone buzzing silently in her purse. She ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. Annoyed, she fished it out.
Her stomach dropped. She quickly typed back: “I’m not home. Don’t wait. We’re done done.”
He paused, his hand on the doorknob. He finally looked at her, and his eyes were dry. “That’s the problem, Lila. You’re not a cheater. But you’re a liar. And sometimes, that’s the same thing.”
Her phone, lying face-up on the blanket between them, lit up.