Chapter 1
one
. . .
Harper
The suitcase won’t close.
I lean my full weight on it, trying to compress eight years of marriage into two pieces of luggage, but the zipper keeps catching on something. Probably the sweater I haven’t worn in three years but kept telling myself I’d wear eventually. I won’t need it in Texas anyway.
I yank it out and toss it on the bed. Try the zipper again. This time it cooperates.
Two suitcases. That’s all I’m taking. It’s mostly clothes, a few books, the framed photo of Stillwell’s town square my dad gave me, and a set of chipped mugs I found at a Brooklyn flea market.
If I wasn’t so numb right now, it might actually shock me that this is all I have to show for almost a decade with a man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with.
Everything else in this apartment, the Italian leather couch, the abstract art I pretended to understand, the price tags that made my stomach tighten, none of it was ever really mine. And the baseball bat lamp he loved? He can have it. I’m done with baseball.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand for the fifteenth time in an hour. I don’t look at it. I already know what it says. Reporters asking for comment. My husband’s agent pitching some united-front bullshit, like I’m meant to smile for the cameras while his client raw-dogs the team physical therapist.
I zip the second suitcase and haul both to the bedroom door. I pause and look back. The bed is still absurdly big. His closet is still a monument to him. I’ve packed up my entire side, and nothing looks different.
I remember being twenty-four and stupidly happy.
He was playing in the majors. We were living in New York.
Everything I’d bent or postponed or quietly set aside felt worth it, like I’d bet on the right future and won.
Spoiler alert: apparently winning doesn’t stop your husband from sleeping with the team physical therapist.
And that’s the problem with packing. It gives you too much time to think. I need to keep moving, keep making small decisions about what stays and what goes, because the second I stop, I’m going to have to feel the full weight of this morning.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a FaceTime call. Lisa’s contact photo lights up the screen showing off her and Craig at the Ribeye Tavern’s grand opening, holding champagne flutes, and grinning like they’d just won the lottery.
“You look like shit,” Lisa says the second the video loads. She’s in her kitchen, hair piled up, wearing an old Texas A&M hoodie that’s definitely Craig’s.
“Thanks. Love you too.”
“Sorry. I just—” She stops, her face doing that thing where she’s trying not to look too worried. “How are you really?”
“Never better,” I say. “Thinking about taking up yoga. Maybe getting a cat.”
“Harper.”
“I’m packing. I’m fine.”
“You’re using your scary calm voice.”
I prop the phone on the counter in the kitchen and zip my duffel bag. “I don’t have a scary calm voice.”
“So you’re really coming home?” she asks.
“I don’t think I have any other choice.”
“Good. Okay. You can stay with me and Craig. We’ve got the guest room set up.” She pauses. “Or Grams’ guest house is open if you don’t want to stay with us. I’m not sure there’s a fridge or if the stove works, but there’s a bed.”
I’d already been planning to hide out at the guest house. It’s small, private, and far enough from the main house that Grams wouldn’t hover. Perfect for avoiding questions and pitying looks.
“I’ll probably stay at Grams,” I say. “But thank you.”
“When’s your flight?”
“Tonight.”
Lisa’s eyes go wide. “Tonight? Harper, it’s already—”
“I know what time it is.”
“Who’s picking you up at the airport?”
“I already booked a car service,” I lie. I haven’t booked anything yet, but I will, and the last thing I need is my little sister driving late at night to rescue me like I’m some kind of disaster she needs to manage. “I’ll text you when I land.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but something in my face must convince her to let it go. “Okay. But please text me. And if you change your mind about staying with us—”
“I know. Thanks.”
She goes quiet for a minute and I know it’s coming. “I’m really sorry, Harper.”
I don’t want her to be sorry. I don’t want anyone to be sorry.
I want to rewind to age twenty-one and tell my younger self not to follow my newly drafted boyfriend.
I want to tell that girl to take the sports photography mentorship and trust the part of her that had a future.
Because if she does, she doesn’t end up married to a cheating piece of shit, booking late-night flights back to her hometown like she’s the one who did something wrong.
But I can’t say any of that, so instead I just nod. “Yeah. Me too.”
After we hang up, I walk to the window and look out at Central Park stretching to the north, all those trees and paths and people who have no idea that the wife of their favorite shortstop just found out he’s been cheating on her with someone who can apparently get pregnant without even trying.
I hope the baby has teeth that come in crooked and need braces and cost him a fortune.
No. That’s not fair. It’s not the kid’s fault.
I hope Kyle ages badly. I hope his hairline recedes and he gets a soft belly the second he stops playing. I hope his knees give out and he loses all that muscle definition he’s so proud of. I hope he has to buy reading glasses at CVS and gets lower back pain every time it rains.
My phone buzz interrupts my voodoo wishes. This time it’s a text from a number I don’t recognize, and the preview makes my stomach drop.
Unknown
Hi Harper, this is Rachel Kim from the Post. We’re running a story about—
I delete it without reading the rest.
Then I call my publicist Emily, because if I’m about to become a tabloid headline, I should probably know what I’m dealing with.
She answers on the first ring. “Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“The Post is running something tomorrow, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. An affair with his physical therapist. Pregnancy still technically unconfirmed, but—”
“It’s confirmed,” I say flatly. “Found out at mediation this morning when his lawyer asked for more time to review assets because of ‘impending family expenses.’”
There’s a pause. “Jesus, Harper.”
“Yeah. His lawyer couldn’t even look at me. Mine had to ask three times what that meant before Kyle’s attorney finally said it out loud.” I laugh, sharp enough to cut glass. “Turns out the physical therapist is about two months along. Funny how that timeline works out, isn’t it?”
I hadn’t known. That’s the part I keep snagging on.
I sat in the room wearing my good blazer because I wanted to look like I was handling his infidelity, and I had no idea.
I thought I was there to divide up furniture and close a bank account.
I thought the worst thing that was going to happen that morning had already happened.
And then his lawyer said impending family expenses and the air just left the room. I looked at Kyle. He was looking at his phone.
That image won’t leave me. When his attorney said it out loud, Kyle couldn’t look at me.
He acted like I was the embarrassing part, the problem to be managed while his real life waited somewhere else.
And that’s the truth, isn’t it. He has this whole other life I was never part of.
There will always be permanent evidence of every night I didn’t ask the right questions, every road trip I didn’t think twice about, every time I believed him because it was easier than not believing him.
“Where is he now?”
“Road trip. Eight games on the West Coast. Didn’t even stick around after we signed.” He was probably already at the airport before I made it to the elevator.
Emily’s quiet for a second. “Do you want to release a statement?”
“No. I just want to get the hell out of New York.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “And when you say out of New York...”
“I’m going back home to Texas.”
“Are you coming back?”
The question catches me off guard, but the answer is easy. “No reason to. We signed the papers this morning. It’s done.”
There’s a pause. “Wait, the divorce is already final?”
“Judge signed off right there. No kids, no shared property worth fighting over, and apparently Kyle was eager to move things along.” The bitterness in my own voice surprises me. “Guess he’s got a timeline to worry about now.”
“Good,” Emily says, the approval clear in her voice. “Listen, I know we’ve only worked together a short time, but if you ever need anything—”
Something loosens in my chest. “Thanks, Em.”
After we hang up, I grab my camera bag from the coat closet. Dust clings to the strap. The bag sags into my grip exactly the way it always did, worn soft in all the right places.
I unzip and find my old Nikon nestled in the foam padding like I never left it.
I pick it up and my thumb finds the shutter button without thinking, and my heart aches for the girl who used to love taking photos.
I had an eye for timing and for finding the story inside the motion.
After the wedding, the bag went in the closet, and the part of me that reached for it just went quiet.
I press the shutter button once. The click sounds the same as it always did.
I zip it closed and add it to my pile. My phone buzzes one more time, and this time the name on the screen makes me smile for the first time in three days.
Larkie Jean Queen. My best friend for as long as I can remember.
I swipe to answer and put her on speaker. “Well, hello, Miss America.”
“Ah, I was just runner up.” Larkie Jean’s voice is pure Texas honey, the kind of drawl that sounds like it should be selling sweet tea on a front porch somewhere.
“Lisa said you’re coming home. Please tell me it’s true and not just wishful thinking on her part.”
“It’s true.”
“Hallelujah. When do you land?”
“Late.”
“Want me to pick you up?”
I lean against the wall and close my eyes for a second.
The honest answer is yes. I want Larkie Jean to pick me up and talk the whole drive home the way she does, filling every inch of silence so I don’t have to.
But if I let her do that, I’m going to cry in the car.
And if I cry in the car, I’m going to fall apart a little, and I don’t have the energy to put myself back together tonight.
“I’m good. I’ve got a car.”
“Harper.”
“Larkie Jean,” I plead. “I love you. I genuinely cannot wait to see you. But it’s been the kind of day where if someone’s too nice to me right now, I’m going to lose it completely, and I’d really like to make it home first.”
There’s a pause, and I can hear her deciding whether to push.
“Okay,” she says finally. “But you call me tomorrow. First thing.”
“First thing,” I promise.
She lets out a long breath, the kind that means she has more to say and is choosing not to say it. “Where are you staying?”
“Grams’ guest house for now.”
“Does anyone else know you’re coming?”
“Lisa. You. That’s it.”
“What about your dad?”
“I’ll go see him tomorrow. I just—” I stop, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want to deal with people yet. The questions, the sympathy, all of it.”
“Say no more. Your secret’s safe with me.” Her voice softens. “I’m glad you’re coming home, Harper.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say, and for the first time in three days, I almost mean it.
I stand in the middle of the living room and look around one last time. Not sad. Angry, betrayed, humiliated — but not sad.
The door clicks behind me as I step on to the elevator. I drag the suitcases behind me as I step outside to meet my driver. I slide into the back seat of the Uber and watch the building disappear.
At JFK, I check my bags and clear security. At ten-fifteen, I board the plane and find my seat by the window. And when the wheels lift off and New York falls away beneath me, I don’t look back.
I’m already gone.