Chapter 2

Between Dylan and me, the brand and style had never changed since the day we got married.

He was a creature of habit. Once he found something he liked, he stuck with it. His toothpaste, his face wash, even his socks were always from the exact same brand.

He always said switching to anything else felt wrong.

This wasn't that brand.

I flipped it over. The expiration date and batch code were stamped on the back: manufactured this past March.

I stood there, gripping the tiny foil wrapper between my fingers, a chill creeping up from my fingertips into my chest.

The harsh bathroom light stung my eyes.

I went to slide it back into his pocket, then hesitated and held it in my palm again.

Footsteps approached from behind.

"Still up?"

Dylan stood at the bedroom doorway, yawning.

He caught my posture, and his gaze dropped right to what I was holding in my open hand.

His yawn froze halfway through.

"Why are you going through my pockets?"

I flattened my palm toward him.

"This isn't what we use."

He walked over, took it from my hand, glanced at it under the hallway light, and let out an indifferent "Oh."

"That? It's from when we stayed at that hotel by the lake a couple of weeks ago. Don't you remember?"

"There were two on the nightstand. You told me to grab them so they wouldn't go to waste. I shoved it in my jacket and forgot all about it."

A couple of weeks ago.

I had indeed said that.

He had taken a rare weekend off, saying he wanted to treat me and our son to a night at a lakeside resort.

Our son had been thrilled.

That trip really did happen.

I stared at him.

His expression was completely innocent, even carrying a hint of groggy confusion.

"What's got into you tonight?"

He tilted his head, studying me.

"First the school portal, now this. Are you just exhausted from taking care of Toby lately?"

"It's nothing. Let's get some sleep."

I handed it back, turned around, and walked into the bathroom.

Once the door was shut, I twisted the faucet on full blast. The water roared against the basin. I braced both hands against the counter and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

We really did stay at that lakeside hotel two weeks ago.

Except I had picked up the packet in that room and looked at it. It wasn't this brand.

The one in the hotel room had a blue wrapper.

This one was red.

I washed my hands and shut off the tap.

By the time I crawled back under the covers, Dylan was already fast asleep again.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin and closed my eyes.

The next morning, the aroma of fried eggs woke me up.

Dylan's eggs were always perfect—crispy, golden-brown edges, bubbly whites, and a warm, runny yolk.

In ten years of marriage, he woke up at six-thirty every single morning to make breakfast, without fail.

My mom always said my greatest blessing in life was marrying a man who knew his way around the kitchen.

When I stepped out of the bedroom, our son, Toby, was already sitting at the dining table swinging his legs, drinking his milk.

Dylan scooped the eggs onto a plate and glanced back at me.

"You're up? I made sunny-side up just the way you like them."