Chapter 2
In the car, Dad kept glancing at us through the rearview mirror like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Ethan sat stiff as a blade beside me, wet hair falling over his eyes, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.
When we got home, I ran to get a clean towel and a first-aid kit myself.
He took the towel from me carefully, as though he were afraid even that much contact would break some unspoken rule. “Why are you doing this?”
There were a hundred answers. Because you died. Because you saved me when I never deserved it. Because I was too blind to see the people who loved me and too eager to trust the ones who wanted my life.
Instead I said, “Because I want to.”
That night, after Dad got him settled in the guest room next to mine, I stood outside Ethan’s door and knocked softly.
He opened it almost immediately, as if he had been standing right there.
I leaned against the frame and asked, “What does 130924 mean?”
For the first time all day, real shock cracked through his composure.
“Why would you ask me that?”
Because in one lifetime, it was the last piece of you I never understood.
I forced a careless shrug. “Just curious.”
He stared at me for a long moment, eyes dark and unreadable. “Why are you helping me?”
There was so much hidden in his voice that it made my chest ache. Years of silence. Humiliation. Wanting and never daring to reach.
I tried to make it light. “Maybe I need a bodyguard. You looked pretty fierce in that alley.”
His mouth twitched, barely. “Fierce?”
“Terrifying, actually.”
That almost made him smile. Almost.
“Get some sleep, Claire,” he said quietly.
The next morning, Dad insisted on driving us to school himself. Mr. Ruiz was at the wheel, Dad in the passenger seat, and the energy in the car was so strange I would have laughed if I had not been bracing for war.
Because the moment I stepped onto campus, I saw her.
Olivia Pierce.
My best friend in my first life. My husband’s mistress. The woman who had stood behind him with one hand on her pregnant belly and a victorious smile on her face while my world ended.
At seventeen, she looked almost innocent. Soft makeup. Pale pink sweater. That same sweet, fragile expression that had fooled me for years.
“Claire!” she chirped, hurrying over to hook her arm through mine. “Why are you walking in with him?”
Her tone already held that subtle edge. That little trace of disgust disguised as concern.
I removed her hand from my arm.
Her face changed instantly.
“Claire?” she said again, smaller this time, performing hurt.
I could still hear her from the future, could still see that smug smile as she whispered that Lucas could not keep his hands off her.
I took one slow breath.
Ethan, reading something in my silence, shifted positions and moved to my other side, placing himself neatly between us without a word.
It was such a small thing. So quiet. So effortless.
And somehow it calmed me more than anything else could have.
I lowered my eyes, softened my voice, and beat Olivia at her own game.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh. I just thought what you said was a little rude. Ethan is our classmate. He’s also the son of one of my dad’s oldest friends. As my best friend, how could you say something so snobbish about him? That puts me in a really uncomfortable position.”
Her face nearly cracked.
It was beautiful.
She had expected me to snap so she could play the victim. Instead, I handed her the role of the shallow, judgmental girl in front of half the senior class.
“I wasn’t—” she began weakly.
I blinked at her. “You weren’t?”
She swallowed hard and mumbled an apology before fleeing.
When she was gone, Ethan looked down at me with open curiosity. “Were you protecting yourself or protecting me?”
His voice was low, rich, and far too calm for the way it scrambled my heartbeat.
I thought of his death. Of the bank card. Of the unlived life hidden behind his silence.
“I wanted to protect you,” I said.
He looked away so fast it almost felt like panic. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
But before I could say anything else, the bell rang.
By lunch, Olivia had already made her move.
I knew because she slipped out after first period, and I followed.
Behind the old science building, half-hidden by overgrown hedges, Lucas Reed was waiting for her.
My future husband.
At eighteen, Lucas was every girl’s dream and every mother’s fantasy of a son-in-law. Tall, handsome, bright smile, worn sneakers that made him look humble instead of poor. When he looked at you, he made you feel chosen.
I used to think that was love.
I crouched behind the corner just in time to see Olivia throw herself into his arms.
My stomach turned.
Back then, in high school, she had always acted shy around him. So careful. So respectful. She had even refused to add him on social media unless I insisted, saying it did not feel right because he was my boyfriend.
Now, with no audience, she was pressed against him like she belonged there.
But Lucas did not hug her back.
He went still. Then he pushed her away and pressed a hand to his forehead like he was dizzy.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, startled.
He stared at her, then at her flat stomach, then around them both as if trying to orient himself in a room that had suddenly changed shape.
His voice came out strained. “What year is this?”
My blood ran cold.
He remembered.
He remembered too.