The room narrowed to a pinpoint. Peter. My high school sweetheart. The boy who’d vanished the morning after that very night, leaving me baffled for weeks, then months, wondering what I’d done wrong.
“I didn’t do it to destroy your marriage,” he said quietly. “I did it because you deserve better than what he was giving you. You always did.”
The room narrowed to a pinpoint.
I pressed my palms flat on the table to keep them from shaking.
“You disappeared,” I whispered. “You didn’t call. You didn’t write. Nothing.”
“I know.” Peter didn’t look away. “My parents arranged for me to marry the daughter of my father’s business partner. They told me that if I refused, they’d cut me off completely. I was 17, Eleanor. I didn’t fight them. I should have. I’ve thought about that every day since.”
“You didn’t call.”
“You had 30 years to say something.”
“You seemed happy,” Peter said. “I checked on you from a distance. I saw you with Chloe when she was little. I saw the house. I told myself you’d chosen a good life, and I had no right to walk back into it.”
