away. His steps retreated along the hall, and soon the front door slammed again. I collapsed to the floor and wept until my face ached. I mourned the younger woman who’d trusted him, the countless questions I’d swallowed for fear of sounding jealous, and those evenings when he’d seemed most alive around Jasmine. Leaving him didn’t instantly erase the man I’d loved.
I could still picture twenty-nine-year-old Aaron outside a small Cambridge Italian restaurant, holding his jacket above my head during a downpour. We both got drenched; he’d laughed until
