Chapter 3

The next morning, I walked out of the bedroom with dark circles under my eyes. On the table, there were sandwiches, fried eggs, and hot milk; everything arranged neatly, like it was straight out of a magazine.

James was standing by the kitchen door, wiping his hands. When he saw me, he just said in a flat voice, "You're up? Eat before it gets cold."

It was like nothing had happened last night.

But something had changed.

He wouldn't come back to our bedroom.

At night, when I asked him to come back, he just said he was used to it. Late at night, I'd go to the living room to find him, but he'd just shut his eyes and pretend to be asleep.

Every morning, before I even got up, he'd neatly fold up the pillow and blanket on the couch and stash them in the storage compartment under the TV stand, leaving no trace behind.

We were so polite to each other, it was like we were just roommates.

We ate our own breakfasts, slept in our own beds. He still got me water, still bought my favorite cherries, even cleaned the leaves off my windshield.

But he didn't touch me.

No hand-holding, no hugs; he wouldn't even spare me a single look.

This kind of cold shoulder was a hundred times worse than him blowing up and yelling.

I tried to play it cute, tried apologizing, even dragged my blanket to the couch in the middle of the night and stubbornly camped out there.

He'd just pick me up, carry me back to the bedroom, pull the covers over me, and quietly slip out again.

His actions were gentle, but he never gave in.

So gentle, I could've cried.

After an entire week of this, I felt like I was suffocating.

Every inch of the house felt heavy, every moment reminding me; he might still be here, but he was already gone.

Then, my mom, Linda Evans, called.

"Emily, your dad and I are coming over next week for a few days, just to check in on you two lovebirds."

I hung up and glanced at the pile of local specialties still cluttering the guest room. My head was buzzing.

I hurried to the living room.

James was sitting on the couch, scrolling through financial news on his tablet, looking totally at ease, like this couch was his territory.

"Honey, my parents are coming over next week."

He didn't even look up.

"Okay."

"We need to clean up the guest room."

"Alright, we'll do it this weekend."

His tone was so flat, not a single ripple of emotion.

I bit my lip, standing there for what felt like forever, until I finally couldn't hold it in anymore.

"James, what do you want from me? Are you really never going to get over this? If my parents come and see you sleeping on the couch, how am I supposed to explain that to them?"

The screen on his tablet froze as he hit pause.

The only sound in the living room was the ticking of the wall clock, each second pounding against my temples.

He turned to look at me. "Then just tell them the truth."

"Tell them the truth?" I was honestly stunned. "What truth? That I let my guy bestie sleep in our wedding bed and sent you to the couch? You want my parents to have a heart attack?"

"I wouldn't say it like that," he shook his head. "I'd just tell them we had a little spat and I'm reflecting on it."

Reflecting.

He said it so offhand, but it made everything crystal clear; he was the one "reflecting," and I was the unreasonable one.

"Wow, James, you're really something!" I jabbed a finger at him, my throat tight with anger. "You just want to make me look like the bad guy!"

He didn't say a word.

He pressed play and went right back to watching his screen.

It was like I didn't even exist.

I stormed back to the bedroom, slammed the door, and buried my face in the pillow, crying my eyes out.

His scent was gone from the pillow. He'd even swapped it out this week; took his old one to the couch and left a brand new pillow on the bed, totally untouched, no trace of him left.

The bed was spotless, like he was making a statement, "This bed isn't mine anymore."

The more I thought about it, the more wronged I felt. I grabbed my phone and called Ryan.

As soon as he picked up, I couldn't hold back my tears anymore. "Ryan, what should I do? James doesn't want me anymore"

"Emily? What's going on? Don't cry, take your time and tell me everything," Ryan replied.

I stumbled through everything that happened that week: James had been sleeping on the couch, sometimes even the floor; he wouldn't touch me; he took his pillow; he said he'd let my parents decide; and he acted like I was invisible.

Ryan paused for a couple seconds after I finished. "He's way out of line.

"Emily, I honestly never thought James was that kind of guy. All this drama over something so trivial? Giving you the silent treatment for a whole week, and acting all snide? 'Reflecting'?

"Come on, he's just trying to control you and make you miserable."

I started sobbing even harder.

"Listen," Ryan dropped his voice, sounding like he was plotting. "You can't keep spoiling him. The more you let him get away with it, the worse he'll get. Your parents are coming, right? That's perfect..."

"Perfect for what?" I asked.

Ryan continued, "Just let him stay on the couch when your parents are here. They'll definitely notice and ask, and you can just tell them exactly what happened. Let them see for themselves and decide who's right.

"I seriously doubt he'll dare to act up in front of your mom and dad."

That idea sounded pretty risky.

But I was at my wit's end, just wanted to crack this mess open, no matter what it took.

"Alright, let's go with that," I said, wiping away my tears.

After hanging up, I sat on the edge of the bed, zoning out for ages.

There was a tiny voice in my head, whispering, 'Are you really sure this is the right move?'

I shoved that voice away.