Those words reminded me of the twenty-eight-year-old Ryan.
Every morning, he used to tell me: “I think I love you more than I did yesterday.”
Each post, each word, was like a knife driven into my chest.
Then, Ryan sent me a message:
“Claire, I’m heading out with the driver to pick up Emily. You know how she hates crowded places. So, you’ll have to head to the party venue on your own later. Thanks, buddy.”
The smile tugging at my lips was uglier than tears.
My husband Ryan had never once broken his word. But this Ryan, the eighteen-year-old him, broke his promises to me as if it were routine.
“Okay.”
“Oh, and by the way, Emily’s on her period. If someone tries to get her to drink, you have to drink for her, otherwise she’ll feel awful.”
But I was allergic to alcohol. Ryan at eighteen had already forgotten.
Back in our freshman year of high school, Ryan had stolen a piece of liquor-filled chocolate from home.
That day, my allergy nearly killed me. Ryan sat at my hospital bedside, guilt written all over his face.
Later, I found out—it was meant for Emily, but she hadn’t wanted it.
Ryan’s social media updated again.
“Emily, what kind of confession could ever show you how much I like you?”