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.