Chapter 3: The Photo That Changed Everything

Ryan disappeared upstairs for a shower, taking way longer than usual. The water ran for twenty minutes—his normal routine was barely five.

When he came back, I caught a whiff of woody cologne—expensive, nothing like his usual drugstore stuff. My stomach twisted. He’d gotten dressed up. Maybe he even changed shirts a few times, agonizing over what to wear. Was this the third shirt? The fifth?

I stared, trying to find a hidden meaning in the plain black tee. Was it a designer brand? Did she buy it for him?

"What's wrong?" He tensed as I stepped closer, his muscles flexing under the shirt. His voice was awkward, self-conscious: "Is there... a weird smell?"

He looked genuinely worried, nose wrinkling as he tried to sniff himself.

"No, no! It’s just rare to see you use that cologne. I thought you didn’t like it before, so I was wondering if I should—"

"I like it," he cut in, almost too quickly. Then he exhaled and explained, "I just don’t usually have a reason to use it."

But today you do, I thought, fighting the bitter taste rising in my throat.

I managed a flat, "oh."

Maybe sensing my mood, Ryan frowned. "I’ll use it more often from now on."

"Okay." Why? So you can smell nice for her every day?

"Do you need me to bring anything back for you to eat? Thai? That new bakery on Second Street?"

"No thanks! Didn’t you say you had something to do?"

I tried to keep my tone casual, but as I raised my hand to shoo him out the door, I remembered how he’d flinched from my touch earlier. I dropped my hand, shoving it into my pocket and pretending nothing was wrong.

"Go on, don’t keep people waiting."

I didn’t notice how his eyes dimmed, like someone had flicked off a light. He answered with a gruff, "okay," the word rough and hurt.

I thought I was being polite, keeping my distance. But Ryan left tense, shoulders hunched, not looking back.

Being the helpful one isn’t easy.

I pouted and sighed into the empty diner. Just as I was about to head upstairs to check on Hunter—and maybe score some toddler cuddles—I spotted Ryan’s phone on the table. He’d left it behind in his rush.

"Hey, Ryan, wait—"

I grabbed the phone to chase after him, but when the screen lit up, my breath caught. My feet rooted to the spot.

He didn’t use a lock screen. The wallpaper was a photo: two hands clasped together. One hand—bigger, with a small red mole near the thumb—wore a childish, plastic blue ring on the ring finger. It squeezed so tight it left an indent.

I recognized Ryan’s hand immediately—strong, rough, veins standing out under the skin. The other hand, smaller, delicate, wore chipped pink polish. The way he clung to her, fingers interlaced, looked desperate, like he was trying to fuse them together.

It was an old photo, colors faded, but it made my heart lurch. More intimate than any kiss. My hand shook. Whoever that other hand belonged to, I already hated her a little.