Chapter 3

Every word I said was airtight. He'd wound up and swung hard, and hit nothing but air.

Nathan stood frozen, his face a tight mask of fury, watching helplessly as I carried that bowl of soup straight into Ethan's room.

I didn't come back out right away.

I set the bowl on the nightstand, carefully stirred it with a spoon, and waited for it to cool to just the right temperature.

Then I fed it to Ethan, spoonful by spoonful --- he couldn't move much with his leg injury.

Only after all of that did I step back out.

Nathan was still standing exactly where I'd left him. Like a statue carved from barely contained rage.

I didn't go to bed. Instead, I walked straight to the center of the living room, toward the black grand piano.

I lifted the lid, sat down, and let my fingers settle onto the cold keys.

The next moment, music filled the room.

It was Nathan's favorite piece. The song that had marked the beginning of us.

The melody drifted through every corner of the house --- through Chloe's room upstairs, through the guest room where Ethan lay.

As I played, the memory came back to me with perfect clarity.

I'd wanted to give Nathan a birthday surprise. I, who couldn't carry a tune to save my life, had secretly taken piano lessons for months.

At his birthday party, I played this piece for him alone.

Back then, his eyes had been so full of love they nearly overflowed. He'd pulled me into his arms and said:

"Nina, this is our song. Only ours."

Only ours.

What a laughable promise.

Now I sat playing the same notes, and what filled my mind had nothing to do with pleasing him.

I was thinking about how to make it hurt.

A dull thud came from the study upstairs. Nathan had thrown something.

At first, he probably thought I was giving in --- using the song to reach back toward what we'd had.

But the moment he realized I was playing it to soothe the man in the guest room, jealousy and the feeling of betrayal would consume him entirely.

Sure enough. Heavy footsteps on the stairs, each one louder than the last, loaded with fury.

He came charging down. I was right at the peak of the piece, the music swelling ---

Bang.

A crash.

He slammed the piano lid down with both hands.

A shock of pain shot through my fingertips. The music stopped dead.

I looked down. Several of my fingers had been caught under the edge of the lid. They were already bright red, swelling fast.

Once, he had been moved by this song. He'd called it precious.

Now he'd brought the lid down with his own hands and killed it.

What had been a symbol of our love had just become the instrument of my pain.

I stared at my reddening fingers. Not a single tear. Just a hollow, glacial stillness.

His so-called "cherished memories" had always been a form of possession.

He didn't love the memory. He loved the control over me that the memory gave him.

He was breathing hard, chest heaving, voice rough with the kind of rage that burns past words.

"Who said you could play that for him? Nina, have you forgotten what that song means to us?"

I raised my head slowly and looked at his face --- twisted with jealousy --- and said quietly:

"But Chloe loves hearing your stories about growing up together, doesn't she?"

"Sharing something beautiful with someone who needs comfort --- isn't that what you taught me?"

Once again, I used his own logic to wall him in completely.

He stared at me, something wild and anguished churning in his eyes. He hadn't expected this kind of calm.

I slowly drew back my injured hand. I stopped looking at the piano. I stopped looking at him.

As if it had all been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

I stood up and said evenly, "If you don't like it, I won't play."

My composure threw his hysteria into sharp relief. He looked like the unreasonable one. Like a child throwing a tantrum.

He went still, rattled by his own loss of control. His gaze dropped to my swollen fingers, and for just a moment, something like remorse crossed his face.

And then.

The guest room door opened.

Ethan stood in the doorway on his crutches, his lean face drawn with worry, his eyes fixed on my hand.

"Nina, your hand..."

He looked up at Nathan. The gentleness in his expression went sharp.