The condensation on my whiskey glass mirrors the rain sliding down my office window. Another late night, another excuse to avoid going home. Home. The word tastes bitter now, like ashes and regret.
Hannah’s latest text glows on my phone:
“Are you staying late at work? I can leave dinner in the fridge for you.”
She’s relentless, always trying to reshape this life into a picture—perfect fantasy it can never be. Beautiful, undeniably so, but in a way that feels deliberate. Those sharp green eyes and perfectly styled auburn waves still turn heads, though they once drew crowds.
Hannah wasn’t always this polished. The tailored dresses and refined demeanor are part of her latest act, a costume she wears with calculated precision. Beneath the elegance, there’s a practiced air about her — a charm she perfected under neon lights and pounding music.
Her smile unnerves me most: warm at first glance, but underneath, it’s sharp and knowing, like she’s still reading the room, still playing to the audience, even if it’s just me.
She’s thrown herself into the role of a devoted wife with the same fervor she once reserved for commanding attention.
My phone buzzes again:
“Don’t forget, we have the florist appointment tomorrow.”
Wedding plans. For a ceremony I never wanted, with a woman I barely know, all because of one drunken mistake that destroyed everything I held dear.
I loosen my tie, staring at the family photo on my desk — my mother holding infant me, the space where my father should be conspicuously empty.
I won’t be like him. I can’t.
The drive home is a blur of neon lights and guilt. Hannah’s waiting in the kitchen, wearing something silky and revealing. Another attempt at seduction that makes my skin crawl.
I’ve been living with Hannah for a month now, but it still feels like I’m somewhere I don’t belong. The house is clean, the nursery plans are coming together, and she’s been trying — really trying — to make this work.
She’s left her old job and is throwing herself into preparing for the baby. She talks about colors for the walls, cribs, and baby clothes with a kind of nervous excitement that I can tell is genuine.
And yet, every time she brings it up, I can only nod and mumble vague agreement, my mind elsewhere.
Abigail.
I think about her constantly. The way she looked at me that night at the restaurant haunts me. I see her in everything, in the soft smiles of strangers on the street, in the quiet moments when I’m alone with my thoughts.
“You’re late again,” Hannah says, her hand resting on her still—flat stomach. The gesture is deliberate, a reminder of why I’m here.
“Case prep.” The lie comes easily now. “I’m tired. I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
Her face falls, but she recovers quickly. “Vincent, we’re getting married in two weeks. You can’t keep avoiding me forever.”
Can’t I?
Hannah has been patient. I’ll give her that. She’s tried to make me comfortable, to draw me into conversations about our future, to create some semblance of a life together. But every time she touches my arm or looks at me with that hopeful smile, I feel like a fraud.
She wants us to share a bed, to act like a real soon to be married couple, but I can’t bring myself to cross that line. I sleep in the guest room, burying myself in work to avoid the awkward silences that stretch between us.
“Vincent,” she said one evening as we sat at the dinner table, the remains of a takeout meal between us. “We can’t keep living like this. It’s not good for the baby.”
I looked up from my plate, meeting her gaze. She seemed nervous, fidgeting with her fork, but her voice was steady.
“We need to try,” she continued. “For the baby’s sake. I know this isn’t what you planned, but it’s our reality now. Don’t you think we owe it to ourselves — and to them — to give this a real chance?”
Her words were reasonable, but they only made the knot in my chest tighten. I wanted to say something, to promise her that things would get better, that I could find a way to let go of the past and move forward with her.
But I couldn’t lie.
Instead, I nodded, muttered something noncommittal, and excused myself to the study.
The wedding is a modest affair at city hall. Hannah wears white, though we both know the irony of it. My best man is a junior associate from the firm who barely knows me. No family present — I couldn’t bear to see my mother’s disappointment.
The reception is at an upscale bar downtown. I drink until the world blurs at the edges, until Hannah’s face sometimes looks like Abigail’s in the right light.
Wrong light. Every light is wrong now.
“Dance with me,” Hannah pleads, pulling me onto the floor. Her perfume is too strong, too floral. Nothing like the clean, subtle scent Abigail used to wear.
I comply mechanically, muscle memory from all those dance lessons Abigail and I took for our wedding. Our real wedding. The one that will never happen now.
More drinks. The world spins. Hannah’s leading me somewhere — our hotel room. The presidential suite, because I’m trying to do this right, even if everything feels wrong.
“Make love to me,” she whispers, and her voice almost sounds like…
“Abigail…”
The name slips out before I can catch it. Hannah freezes in my arms, but I’m too far gone to stop.
“Abby, I’m sorry… so sorry…” I whispered between the light kisses I began to cover her face with.
Somewhere in my alcohol—soaked brain, I register Hannah’s sharp intake of breath, the way her heated flesh stiffens around mine. But all I see is Abigail’s face the night I told her, the way her world shattered in her eyes.
“Vincent.” Hannah’s voice cracks. “I’m not…”
“Love you, Abby… always loved you… only you…”
The rest is a blur of wrong touches and misplaced passion. When I wake the next morning, Hannah’s side of the bed is cold. I found her in the bathroom, mascara streaked down her cheeks, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“I thought…” she chokes out. “I thought if we got married, if I tried hard enough…”
The guilt is crushing. “Hannah, I—”
“Don’t.” She holds up a hand. “Just… don’t.”
We drive home in silence, Hannah disappears into the master bedroom and I retreat to my office, pulling out the familiar bottle of whiskey. As I pour, my phone lights up with a calendar reminder:
“Abigail’s birthday.”
I delete it with trembling fingers, but the damage is done.
