“Megan.”
She looked me over, rain dripping from her dark hair onto her collarbone, and gave me a tired half-smile.
“Good. You still remember my name. I was worried the breakup came with full family amnesia.”
That was Megan Ellis for you. Soaked to the bone, shivering, clearly in trouble, still landing a clean shot.
My name is Ben Carter. I was 34 years old, a residential contractor in Wilmington, North Carolina, and I had spent the last year rebuilding kitchens, fixing porch rails, and convincing myself I had rebuilt my life too.
The truth was less impressive.
A year earlier, I had been engaged to Ashley Ellis, Megan’s older sister. Ashley was polished, ambitious, beautiful in a way that made strangers hold doors too long. For a while, I thought that meant we fit.
