Chapter 1Too Late for Sorry

For five years, Maya was my wife, and for five years, she hated my guts.

She collected lovers—young, beautiful men—and paraded them in front of me like trophies.

She even got pregnant with one of their children, a living monument to the ghost of her dead first love.

"You let him die," she would say, her voice a blade. "This is what you deserve."

Then, one day, she learned the truth. She came to me, tears streaming down her face, begging for a second chance.

But it was too late. I was already dying.

* * *

The day I got the diagnosis was the same day as my ten-year high school reunion.

I called Maya three times on my way home from the doctor’s office, thinking she might want to go with me, for old times’ sake. She didn't pick up.

Her only reply was a three-word text.

Stop bothering me.

So I went alone. At the restaurant, the jokes started almost immediately.

"Look who it is! Your wife running a whole company now, Leo? Too busy for the likes of us?"

"Haha, don't tell me she's too good for her old classmates now that she's a big-shot CEO."

"Nah, cut it out," someone else chimed in. "You know Maya. She's the most sentimental one of us all. Every single year, she still makes time for Connor's…"

The speaker trailed off, his eyes darting to me with a flash of apology.

"Sorry, man. Leo. I'm sorry."

I forced a smile that felt like cracking plaster. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

The table scrambled to change the subject, the conversation suddenly loud and clumsy.

It wasn't a secret. Ever since Connor died, Maya reserved two weeks out of every year to fly back to his hometown and visit his grave. She even took care of his parents, sending them money, handling their affairs. She did it all without a single thought for how I might feel, ignoring her own parents' objections. It was a grand, public performance of her devotion.

Everyone knew. My wife was married to me, but a piece of her would always belong to him.

I took a sip of water, trying to force the thought down.

Just then, the door to our private room swung open. In walked Maya, impeccable in a Chanel suit, her makeup flawless. A genuine smile played on her lips; she looked happy. My heart gave a stupid, hopeful little flutter.

The room erupted.

"Maya! We thought you weren't coming!"

"Wow, still the queen of the class! You haven't aged a day!"

"Get over here! Your husband's been moping in the corner, won't even touch his food without you!"

But my eyes weren't on Maya anymore. They were on the young man trailing in her wake.

My breath caught in my throat.

He had Connor's face. Or about seventy, eighty percent of it.