Damian
I called Camille once.
We didn’t talk long, just enough for her to say Ivy and the baby were okay. That was all I needed to hear to survive the next day.
But every hour I was here, I felt further from the man I had been with Ivy.
Every night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my hands clenched, wondering if Lila had smiled that day. Wondering if Ivy hated me yet. If she understood why, I left. If she knew how much it was killing me.
Give me four years, I’d told her.
It hadn’t even been four weeks.
And already, I was breaking.
Two and a half months.
Seventy-five days of pretending I could live without them.
The days since I left Manhattan had passed with brutal, methodical cruelty, each one the same as the last, only colder. The city outside was wet and gray. The people
