I never questioned my decision to marry Faith the day she turned eighteen. She needed to get out of her situation at home and, at nineteen, I already knew everything about everything, so in my mind it made perfect sense. We’d been pals for years. I loved her. She had no idea. But she was desperate for somebody to rescue her, and a marriage of convenience with me was a better—safer—choice than anything else she could find. Since I lived away at college, no one even had to know. It worked great until the end of the semester. And then she walked out. And I let her. I occasionally do some digging, just to check that she’s okay. And every now and then I think about the divorce papers I drew up but never sent. Now she’s here. Literally on my doorstep. Begging me, once again, for help. And I hate that I still love her. Even after fourteen years.