His Other Life

Chapter 1

ONE

ISLA

Present day

At some point in the past two years, heading to the store for a basic errand had become the equivalent of running a medieval gauntlet for Isla Gallagher. There was the dread, slithering like wet fog across her senses in the hours leading up to the main event, the suit of armor she had to don for protection, and the meticulous planning it took to chart the best path past any obstacle.

Granted, for Isla, the armor wasn’t made of metal but of clothes and make-up from her old life, a practiced smile, feigned indifference. The obstacles were also less spiky clubs and glinting blades, and more the possibility of running into someone she knew and being forced to engage in chit-chat at the cash register. But whether the peril was real or not, if staying home was an option, Isla would happily pick that any day of the week.

Today was no different, except today she had no choice. She was making her husband’s favorite meal for their seven-year anniversary, a Vietnamese stir-fry that required both lemongrass and chili oil, neither of which she had in the pantry.

She paused at the front door, the knob cool against her palm, and closed her eyes. The bus would arrive at the stop in eight minutes. She’d time her walk so she’d get there in five. Take a seat in the back, headphones on, let Port Townsend rush by outside the window in a gray February blur.

“It’ll be fine,” she whispered to herself. “Just do it.”

A sharp inhale, and then she opened the door and stepped into the rain, pulling the hood of her jacket up.

The weather worked in her favor—nothing like a downpour to make people keep their heads down as they hurried from one place to the next—and after a fifteen-minute ride, she reached her destination with no close call. She’d worked herself up over nothing as usual, like Mom would say. (“You can’t stop living your life, Birdie.”) Isla knew she was right, and yet…

She stepped inside the large market on the other side of town and blinked at the garish fluorescent lights overhead while she scanned her surroundings. It was unusually quiet even for a Monday afternoon, which boosted her confidence. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The rivulets running off her jacket were quickly making a puddle where she stood, so she pulled out her phone and opened the list containing the missing meal ingredients as well as a few other basics—ten items in total scribbled in order of the aisles. She should be able to get this done in under six minutes. Then all she had to do was wait for the return bus and she’d soon be back home again. She’d have dinner on the table by seven. Jonah would be proud of her.

There were two people ahead of her in line, and she allowed herself that time to browse the candy section. That was her mistake, losing focus for a moment.

“Professor Gallagher?”

The voice startled Isla from her internal debate between chocolate and sour gummies.

“I thought it was you,” the girl behind the register said. “I almost didn’t recognize you. I didn’t know you lived here. How’s your day going?”

Isla squinted at the girl. “Um, great.” Normally she was good with both names and faces, but those stupid years of Zoom classes had messed everyone up.

The French Impressionism class, she thought. Maybe Addison something. She glanced at the girl’s nametag. Madison .

Isla dug deep and found a smile. “How have you been?” She placed her items on the belt in a jumble. “Done with school?”

“For now. I’m applying for my master’s. Museum studies.”

“Oh wow. Very good.”

“Your class was actually part of what inspired me.” Madison paused her scanning.

No, don’t stop . Isla nodded, her heart picking up speed.

“Yeah, I’m hoping to get into curation work.” Madison gestured with a can of coconut milk in her hand. An un scanned can. “Preferably on the East Coast where my fiancé is from. We’re getting married next year.”

Isla forced her gaze from the can to Madison’s face. What would she have said two years ago if one of her students made this announcement? What voice would she have used?

“Oh wonderful.” She swallowed. “Congratulations.”

Madison beamed at her but still didn’t scan the damn can. “Thanks.”

No, enough of this .

Isla pulled out her wallet. “Um, I hate to rush you, but I’ve got a bus to catch.” She put as much warmth in her voice as she could, but when Madison’s brow rose in seeming surprise, Isla second-guessed herself. Maybe this wasn’t how she used to talk to her students. Was there a professional distance she’d lost since being away from the university?

“Of course,” Madison said. And finally, the groceries went into Isla’s canvas bag.

Isla hurried to pay but fumbled with the zipper to her purse when she went to put the wallet away again. Great, now she was keeping Madison waiting. She managed an apologetic grimace at the girl, who was holding the handles of the bag, waiting for Isla to take them.

“Ugh, this freaking thing,” Isla muttered.

And that’s when it happened. She looked up, sweat now dampening the nape of her neck, and reached for the bag, almost sensing the question before it found her ears.

Madison didn’t let go. Instead, she cocked her head, intent on Isla. “Hey, Professor, are you okay?”

And what could Isla do other than yank the bag out of Madison’s hand and run?

There was no way she was answering that question.

The whiskey slipped down her throat like smokey silk. One shot, then another.

Isla set the glass down on the counter then rested her palms against the marbled stone and closed her eyes. She counted to ten slowly before opening them, then she allowed her shoulders to come down from their high perch and returned to the hallway to remove her slick boots and dripping jacket. She’d have to mop the floors before she started cooking, but the tension had built further during the ride home, and her need for something to take the edge off had surpassed the need to protect the hardwood.

She didn’t drink like this often. Well, perhaps a little more often in recent months than she had in the past, but if it helped, what was the harm? Two shots of whiskey and she could function again. She’d ventured far today, and for a good cause. She’d take care of the floors, unload her groceries, then maybe set the table before she started cooking. A solid plan.

She spun toward the kitchen and almost toppled headfirst over a black shadow sprinting across the floor.

“Dammit, Ulysses!”

The cat stopped in the doorway and peered at her over his shoulder. Look where you’re going , the feline seemed to say. Also, I’m hungry.

Had she fed him this morning?

“Fine, I’m coming.” Isla tiptoed after the cat into the kitchen, avoiding the wet boot prints (and now damp paw prints too) as best she could. Poor Ulysses. He deserved a more responsible human.

Once the floors were dry, the cat was fed, and the groceries put away, Isla turned on the TV like she always did when she was home alone. Reaching behind the DVD player, she pulled out the case with the disc of her choice and popped it in. Then she sat back on the floor and pressed play.

The first notes of Christina Perri’s “A Thousand Years” played over the speakers, followed by a shaky camera shot panning over the church, the snow-covered grounds, the gathering of people in dresses and suits. They’d been so lucky. Bellingham had gotten dumped on in the days leading up to the wedding, but on the day of, the sun had shone from a blue sky, making the icy white still on the ground sparkle.

The music faded as the camera panned to Jonah, who grinned into it. “Let’s get this party started already,” he said. “Someone go get my bride.”

Isla said the words along with him, her lips tugging into a smile. Time to get a-cooking.

The recipe was trickier than she remembered. She forgot that not getting all the chopping done before turning on the burner would have her in a bind during the fourth step, when two pans had to be combined, so her timing was off. The soundtrack was reassuring though. She trimmed chicken breasts to the strings and pipes of the entry procession and was familiar enough with the video to know without looking at exactly which note the camera panned to Jonah’s stunned face as he saw her coming down the aisle toward him on her dad’s arm. Her two favorite men.

The knife slipped, nicking her thumb instead.

“Ouch.” Isla watched as the first red bubbles oozed to the surface of her skin. Next to her, the waiting pan sizzled impatiently. Dammit . She stuck her finger under the tap. Behind her, the priest welcomed the congregation.

By the time she’d found a Band-Aid, put the chicken in the pan to fry, and poured herself another shot (for the pain), she and Jonah were facing each other on the screen. Isla paused at the table, silverware in hand, watching mesmerized as he lifted her veil. The room spun, and she steadied herself against the back of a chair. That swish when the soft mesh brushed past her hair—she could still hear it. Feel it. She’d been found.

She took a few steps closer to the TV, not wanting to miss that velvet awe in Jonah’s eyes as he said, “I do.”

The screen froze. Skipped a beat. Jonah’s eyes were stuck half closed on a blink, his mouth stretched into an almost cartoonish smile.

“No.” Isla dropped the silverware and hurried to the DVD player. She tapped it gently. “Come on.”

The video skipped another jagged step forward and now Isla was in the picture, head bent on a nod.

“No,” Isla said, louder this time. She pressed stop and ejected the disc. Breathed on it as if that would infuse it with life and wiped it with her shirt sleeve. She must have gotten a fingerprint on it or something. It was not scratched. It couldn’t be.

She held her breath while navigating the chapters to the right one. The vows. She rubbed absent-mindedly at her nose. Something was irritating it, but she ignored it while the screen filled again with her and Jonah. The veil lift, the blessing of the rings, the vows. The video played without stopping this time, and Isla exhaled. She needed to make another copy of this disc, just in case.

With her hands on her hips, Isla watched for another few seconds before Ulysses weaved past her legs with a loud meow.

“It was just a smudge,” she told him. “Nothing to worry about.”

The cat meowed again and ran toward the kitchen. That’s when the smell of burning meat seeped fully into Isla’s consciousness.

“Oh fuck!”

The chicken was salvageable once she’d cut the burned bottoms off, but the sauce looked wrong, and the garlic press was nowhere to be found, so in the end, Isla had to admit the dish only vaguely resembled what she’d intended.

She sat down at the table and lit the candle between the two plates. Poured another shot and held it up for a toast, but before she could say anything, the doorbell rang.

She froze, that one singular thought she’d held close all day rising to the surface.

Jonah?

She scrambled to her feet, almost tripped on the rug, then sprinted toward the front of the house with her heartbeat frantic against her sternum. Her mind swirled amber with whiskey, accompanied by the crowd cheering on their first dance on the TV. Etta James and mood lighting. A future of possibilities.

Please be him.

She yanked open the door with such urgency that the person on the step let out a small yelp.

“Jeez, Birdie. You scared me.” Nancy, Isla’s mom, walked past her to the closet and shrugged out of her coat. “Would you believe I left my freaking purse at home?”

Isla swallowed hard and closed the door with a click. She was so stupid. Of course it wasn’t Jonah. Jonah was tuxedos and vows. Snowy streets and church bells. Photographs and memories.

Jonah was forever gone. Dead. And that was her fault.