I should have just said no from the start. Not just when Ethan brought up the idea of his friends coming over for dinner. I mean way before that, like when I first realized how awful they were. I never outright said that I didn’t hate them, but let me be honest with you: I think I made it pretty clear.

But my husband, Ethan?

He’s so different from these guys. At 35, he’s a successful manager at a tech company, and for reasons that I will never understand, he’s still friends with the same guys he went to high school with.

They’re loud, rude, and completely unlike Ethan. They’re everything he left behind when he made something of himself.

Except, apparently, his loyalty to them.

“Dani, it’s just one game,” he said that night, sitting in the kitchen with a hopeful grin. “The guys really want to watch the game here. They’re dying to see our new TV setup. It’ll be fun!”

I sighed, trying to stay calm. I could almost see the dreadful evening unfolding. I knew that Ethan’s friends would take over the house, inappropriate comments getting into every conversation.

“Ethan, you know how I feel about them. Every single time they come over, it’s like our house gets turned into a frat house. I’m not cleaning up after them again. It’s not happening.”

My husband’s face dropped, a look of wounded pride flashing in his eyes.

“It’s just one night, Danielle. I don’t get to see them very often because of work. Come on, you can hang out upstairs or something. Don’t be like this.”

“No,” I said. “They’re not coming here.”

“Please?” Ethan asked, pouting. “I promise you, I’ll do all the cleaning before and after. You won’t have to do a thing. Why don’t you invite your girls over? You guys can use the hot tub outside and catch up or whatever.”

I didn’t say anything. Ethan didn’t say anything else either.

He just turned back to his bowl of pasta, chewing in silence.

I should’ve seen what was coming next.

A few days later, it happened.

It was Saturday, the night of the big game, but Ethan hadn’t said anything about it. In fact, he was the model husband, coming with me to get groceries, even stopping to get me a bouquet of flowers.

“What do you want for dinner tonight?” he asked as we drove home.

“Anything that doesn’t involve me cooking,” I said.

Ethan chuckled.

“Okay, let’s see what we can do.”

In the end, Ethan decided that we would do takeout for dinner.

“I don’t feel like cooking either,” he said. “So, I ordered a lot of fried chicken and fries.”

“Sounds incredible,” I said. “And when I regret this in the morning, just go with the flow.”

“Deal,” Ethan laughed. “Do you think you could get the six-pack of beer from the basement fridge?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll go in a bit. I just want my nails to dry.”

Ethan nodded and went into the living room, chatting with someone on his phone, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. I was glad that he didn’t mention the game again, and I was even going to sit with him while it was on.

I blew on my nails one more time before I headed down to the basement.

“I’m going to the basement,” I called to Ethan. “Pay attention for the delivery guy!”

He waved me off, barely glancing at me as I walked down the stairs into the cold, dimly lit space where we stored extra drinks in the spare fridge.

I had been trying to turn the basement into my own little reading haven for a while, but whenever I made big purchases for it, I immediately felt guilty. Now, there was a comfy couch and two empty bookshelves.

“Got you,” I said to myself as I grabbed the six-pack and turned around to head up the stairs.

I was almost up the stairs when the door to the basement slammed shut.

I blinked in the sudden darkness. That was weird.

“Ethan?” I yelled.

I tried the door handle, but it didn’t budge.

“Ethan!” I called again, louder this time. No answer. I rattled the handle harder. Still locked. My stomach twisted.

He couldn’t have seriously locked me down here by accident, could he?

I banged on the door.