Then Ethan walked into the kitchen, opened a beer from the built-in refrigerator I had chosen, leaned against the island I had paid extra to have cut from one seamless slab of Calacatta marble, and said his family was moving in.
“Your sister?” I asked, because sometimes the mind grabs the smallest available detail when the larger betrayal is too much to take in. “Lily? The one who just got divorced last month?”
“She needs a fresh start.”
“And your parents?”
“They’re getting older.”
“They’re sixty-two and sixty-four. Your father still skis.”
Ethan gave me the look he reserved for moments when he believed I was being difficult in a way that embarrassed him. “That’s not the point, Claire.”
“What is the point?”
“There’s more than enough space.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s family.”
“That’s also not a reason.”
His mouth tightened.
I stood on the opposite side of the kitchen island with my bare feet against the cool floor, a half-unpacked box of glassware beside me, and watched the man I had married rearrange my life without the faintest hesitation. The movers had only left the day before. There were still boxes in the dining room. My office shelves were empty. The master closet smelled faintly of new wood and tissue paper. We had not even decided which wall would hold the first piece of art.
And he had already given rooms away.
“When did you tell them they could come?” I asked.
He took another drink. “A few days ago.”
“A few days ago,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“Before we moved in.”
