The moment I saw what was in the magazine, rage hit so hard my face went ice-cold. I stood by the supermarket shelves for a long time before I could force myself back under control.

Joy did it on purpose—dragging up old wounds, spreading my pain like gossip, twisting the knife straight into my chest. The more furious and desperate I got, the happier she was.

I put my phone back—the one I’d already pulled out of my bag, ready to call her—and went back to the ...