If Don Basset had put the money into the mortgage they’d have all but paid it off and things would have been good. But he spent the lot on a new BMW. When Larissa suggested this had been selfish—that they were a family and, besides, the old Ford had been fine—he said she didn’t trust him. Then he went searching for something to salve his injured pride. Camille liked his swagger and his veneer of affluence and her own estimation that the difference in their ages meant he’d be temporary fun.

Don imagined a love greater than anything he’d known before. Greater than the courting years and Larissa’s three pregnancies and raising their kids and being there through parents’ illnesses. Such a love.

He imagined his rediscovered youth.

One early morning, his ears ringing from the music at the club and his vision blurred by vodka shots he drove the new car into a pole.

Two days later he woke in white, surrounded by machines. He opened his eyes to his wife’s pitying face.

‘Larissa?’ he asked. Camille shook her head.

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