Chapter 1: Ghosts in the Living Room

After my ex-girlfriend cheated on me, I still loved her—God, I did. I couldn’t even blame her for cheating. The only person I blamed was the guy in the mirror.

Looking back, I can still feel that dull ache in my chest, the kind that doesn't let up, even when you're sitting in your own living room staring at the ceiling fan spin. The kind of heartbreak that sits in your bones, not just your heart. Even the couch cushions felt too hard, too cold, like nothing in the world could soften the blow.

Later, I got married. My wife is wonderful, my son is clever, my career is thriving, and to outsiders, I have the perfect, happy family.

People at the office holiday party would shake my hand and say, "Man, you’ve really got it all together, Derek." And I'd just smile and take another sip of lukewarm punch, pretending not to hear the hollow echo behind their words. Someone from accounting was singing off-key Mariah Carey in the background.

Until I went on a business trip and ran into my ex-girlfriend. She was still dazzling, still radiant, just as she was in our youth when my heart first skipped a beat for her.

She was standing at the window of the conference hall, sunlight slanting through the glass, her hair catching gold like it always used to back in college. My stomach did that old, embarrassing flip-flop. Suddenly, I was twenty-two again, all sweaty palms and hope, like nothing in my life since had mattered.

The only difference was, she was now divorced.

She wore her freedom like a new leather jacket—something she wasn't quite used to, but that fit her anyway. It made my own wedding ring feel suddenly heavier.

In that instant, my heart pounded wildly. I felt like our story wasn’t over yet.

I could hear the blood rush in my ears. The world narrowed to just me and her, the past and the present colliding in the soft hush of that hotel lobby.

After returning home, I tried several times to bring up divorce with my wife, but the words never left my mouth.

I rehearsed it in the shower, staring at the fogged-up mirror, but every time I saw Natalie's gentle smile at dinner, the words just dissolved.

I have to admit—my wife really is a good woman.

Some nights, I’d watch her reading bedtime stories to our son, her face soft in the lamplight, and I’d feel this deep, sick guilt. She deserved better than a husband with one foot out the door.