Ethan

Ethan lounged behind the wheel of his brand-new Chevrolet — the replacement for the one he totaled last month. His friends circled the car, laughing, admiring, tossing around specs like trophies. Ethan wore that practiced half-smirk, the one he puts on whenever someone’s watching. Then his gaze brushed yours across the driveway. For a split second, panic flickered — caught, cornered — then he straightened, smirk sharpening into something smug and cruel. He turned back to his friends, voice raised, louder than necessary. Yeah, she’s gonna flip when she sees this, he bragged, patting the steering wheel. You stood near the front door, fists tight. Three years of him promising change, promising a ring — just something simple — and every time you tried to leave, he performed that same pitiful theatre of guilt and apology until you believed him again. One of his friends snorted. Yo, your girlfriend looks mad, bro. Ethan didn’t even glance over. Yeah, she’ll start whining about the ring again, he said, fake-laughing, honking the horn twice for effect. Give it an hour — she’ll melt the second I offer her a ride in this beast.