Chapter 2: Smoke Rings and Phone Calls

Out on the back porch, I slowly exhaled a smoke ring, just about to answer Chris’s question when my phone buzzed.

Winter was biting tonight, the kind of cold that numbs your fingertips even with gloves on. I flicked ash into the chipped saucer balanced on the porch rail and glanced at the screen.

It was my wife, Emily.

“Hey! When are you getting home? Jamie just did a backflip—seriously, you have to see this.”

That laugh—bright and easy, like the first day of summer break. I found myself laughing too, the stress of the day easing just a little.

“Alright, I’ll be home soon. Want me to bring you some caramel corn?”

“Yes, please!”

“Today, you want Chicago mix or classic butter?”

“Chicago mix.”

We hung up, still laughing.

The call ended, but her warmth lingered. The porch light glowed soft behind me, and the air smelled faintly of snow and wood smoke.

When I turned back, Chris was staring at me, looking a bit dazed.

I curled my lips. I wasn’t surprised. He looked like he was trying to piece together a puzzle that just wouldn’t fit, his breath fogging up in the cold.

He’d just gone through a nasty divorce—caught between his wife and his girlfriend, lost half his stuff, and now the two women were sworn enemies.

But me and Emily?

We were the couple everyone envied—sweet and affectionate. Four years of marriage, and instead of growing tired of each other, our feelings had only deepened. At every family barbecue or Christmas party, people pointed to us as the gold standard, the ones who had it all figured out.

Honestly, I’d always treated her well. And after I cheated, I treated her even better. Guilt has a way of making you extra attentive, extra careful. I’d buy her little gifts, pay more attention, try harder than ever—like I could make up for what she didn’t know.

Chris pouted and pressed me.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

I shook my head, flicked the ash from my cigarette, and asked him, “Let me put it this way: do you feel anything when you touch your own hand?”

He frowned, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his thrift store coat. “What kind of feeling could there be?”

I took a drag, squinting at the patchy snow in the backyard. “That’s how I feel about Emily now. When I touch her, it’s like touching my own hand. But if that hand gets hurt, I’d feel the pain too.”

Chris blinked. “Is that why you’re with Rachel?”

I turned to him, my voice serious. “Rachel’s got a lot of self-respect. Don’t ever say something like that in front of her.”

The porch grew quiet for a second, just the soft creak of the swing chain and the distant sound of a car crunching over the icy street.