She stares at him for a long time, seeing all the versions of him layered like sheets of transparency paper: the boy she fell in love with, the man she exchanged vows with, the husband who disappointed her time and time again. Now he’s too comfortable for his own good, already too set in his ways. But Lucy is on the brink of a whole new chapter. She’s sad, angry, and, most painful of all, powerless to sculpt Patrick into someone he doesn’t want to be. “You don’t really care about me,” she says, stunned as the idea clicks into place. The heartache is instant and real, an actual pang in her
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