At 3:00 a.m., your phone lights up the bedroom like a police siren, cold and accusing. For one wild second, you think it has to be Ethan calling to beg, or threaten, or do what men like Ethan always do when the consequences finally crawl up and bite them. You let it ring twice while you stare at his name that is not there, at the unknown number, at the dark ceiling above you. Then you answer, and instead of Ethan’s voice, you hear a woman trying not to cry.
“Vivian?” she says, breathless, shaky. “This is Lara. I think… I think your boyfriend is passed out on my front lawn.”
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