Chapter 1: Ghosts in the Bathroom Mirror

When I was eighteen, I walked in on Caleb Preston helping a struggling student fasten her bra clasp.

That moment changed everything I thought I knew about loyalty, love, and what it meant to belong.

The sterile reek of the high school hallway clung to my clothes, the buzz from overhead lights drilled into my ears, and my footsteps echoed like warning bells as I shoved open the heavy bathroom door. My heart did a queasy flip—like standing on the edge before a big game, or knowing you’d stumbled into something you couldn’t unsee.

He looked serious, his hands fumbling and awkward, not at all like someone caught in a flirtation.

Caleb was never the smooth type, not even close. Even now, all these years later, I can see the stiff line of his shoulders and the clumsy twist of his fingers as he tried to hook the clasp, as if it were some puzzle he’d never solve. No charm, no jokes—just pure, stubborn earnestness.

At twenty-six, I did what my family expected: I married Caleb Preston.

Our wedding photos are still tucked away in my mother’s albums—me in ivory lace, Caleb by my side, his tie just a shade crooked, both of us grinning politely for the crowd at the Forsyth Park pavilion. My family called it a match made for stability, for social standing, for tradition. I told myself it was enough, that maybe love would grow—or maybe it wasn’t required at all. In Savannah, that’s not so rare.

But everyone in our Savannah circle whispered about the portrait he kept locked in his study drawer—a secret reminder of the girl he’d never let go.

People in this city just know things. Who pours the best bourbon at their Derby party, who’s on thin ice at church. The story about Caleb’s hidden portrait spread through the grapevine, like all good gossip. Even at church potlucks, the whispers found me: Caleb Preston still holding a torch for Lillian Hayes, the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. The framed photo, stashed away but never tossed, was proof enough for everyone.

In the third year of our marriage, I finally said the word: divorce.

It wasn’t a scene. Just me, across from him at the old oak table, hands folded tight. My hands trembled against the cool wood of the table, and I focused on the faint jasmine scent drifting through the cracked window—anything but his eyes. "We should talk," I said, and he already knew. He knew before I even opened my mouth.

He sat in silence for what felt like forever before finally signing the papers.

All I heard was the distant drone of a neighbor’s lawnmower and the slow, scratchy drag of his pen on paper. He didn’t look at me as he pushed the documents over, his face shuttered tight. It was the silence that hurt—the kind that presses down on you until you can barely breathe.

"If you ever need help in the future, just ask."

So typically Caleb—plain, practical, a goodbye and an apology wrapped in one. He stood, grabbed his jacket, and left me with a line that stuck, echoing louder than all the words we never said.

Later, I walked into a cocktail party, arm in arm with a partner from a law firm.

It was on a rooftop in the Historic District, fairy lights strung overhead, laughter drifting over the river. I felt eyes on me as I arrived with Jackson Lee—yes, that Jackson Lee, top partner at Walker & Cline. He had that easy confidence that made women laugh and men want to outdo him at golf. I tucked my arm through his, trying to shake the ghost of Caleb’s hand from my memory.

A childhood friend piped up, "Back in debate club, you two were always at each other’s throats. Who would’ve thought you’d end up hand in hand one day."

Melissa, who’s known me since braces and ribboned socks, waggled her glass. The room laughed, and I managed a smile, remembering those after-school arguments about the Bill of Rights and who deserved Prom Queen. "He’s just a better adversary than most," I joked, my voice pitched a little too high. The Southern humidity pressed around us like a heavy quilt, and for a moment, I was sixteen again.

That night, deep into the night, Caleb Preston’s number lit up my phone for the first time in months.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering. The phone’s glow cast sharp, weird shadows across my comforter. My heart thudded so loud I worried Jackson, dozing beside me, might wake.

"Back then, you insisted on that riverside apartment because you could see his law firm from there."

His text was short, almost cold. But beneath it, I could feel the history—the way he remembered every detail, every minor betrayal, every longing. The riverside apartment with its creaky floors and blinding morning sun—the one I’d chosen for the view. Turns out, he always knew what I was really looking at.