Chapter 2
From now on, Bethany was living for herself.
Just as she was about to get in the car, her phone buzzed.
It was Myron calling.
Bethany stared at the name flashing on the screen, hesitated for a moment, then answered.
Myron's voice came through, anxious and urgent. "Beth, where are you? It's Christmas Eve. Don't run off like this."
Bethany stayed silent.
"Don't take it so hard with Mom and Dad. They're stuck in their old ways. Just apologize and it'll blow over."
'Apologize? Here we go again,' she thought.
Bethany scoffed. "Myron, do you know what happened? Dad slapped me. In front of everyone. Because of Grandma."
There was a long silence on the other end.
After a while, Myron let out a sigh. "Dad lost his temper. Just come back. I'll talk to them. I'll make sure they don't yell at you."
"Come back?" Bethany shot back. "What for? So I can apologize?"
"Beth!" Myron's tone got a bit harsher. "Do you really have to blow this up? We're family. Can't we get past this?"
"There's no getting past this," Bethany said, her voice calm. "Myron, you know what? I'm not leaving because of that slap. I'm leaving because I finally figured it out."
"What did you figure out?"
Bethany gazed at the fireworks bursting in the distance, her voice steady, every word ringing out.
"In that house, I was never family." With that, she hung up and blocked every single one of her family's numbers.
The car arrived.
She opened the door and got in. "Take me to the most expensive hotel downtown."
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror, saw her swollen cheek and the blood at the corner of her mouth, hesitated for a moment, but kept quiet.
The car slipped into the flow of traffic.
Bethany rested her head against the window, watching the familiar scenery rush by.
The streets she'd grown up with suddenly felt strange and unfamiliar.
She knew she could never go back.
And she didn't want to.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was an unknown number.
She frowned, then swiped to answer.
On the other end, a deep, vaguely familiar voice came through, tinged with uncertainty. "Bethany?"
Bethany froze.
That voice sounded familiar.
"It's me, Shane."
That name hit Bethany like a stone dropped into the frozen lake of her heart, sending ripples through her soul.
Shane Madison was the guy who sat next to her in high school. He was the only bright spot in her entire teenage years.
Then he went abroad, and they lost touch.
Bethany didn't know why he was calling.
"How did you get my number?" Her voice was rough.
Shane chuckled, his voice gentle and soothing through the phone.
"If you want to find someone, there's always a way. I got back home. Was planning to surprise you at the class reunion in a couple days, but..." He paused, sounding worried.
"I was out on my balcony, and I think I saw you down by your building. Are you okay?"
Then it hit her that Shane used to live in that upscale complex right across from her place.
From his apartment, he could see what was happening outside her building.
So he had seen everything.
He had seen her being thrown out of her home on Christmas Eve like a stray dog.
A wave of embarrassment and shame crashed over her.
"I'm fine," Bethany shot back, her voice tense.
"The injury on your face..." Shane clearly didn't believe her.
"I slipped and fell," Bethany blurted out, trying to cover it up.
She couldn't stand the thought of anyone, especially him, seeing her this messed up.
There was a brief silence on the other end.
Shane didn't push her any further. He changed the subject, trying to sound casual. "Christmas Eve, all alone out there? Bet you haven't had dinner yet, huh?"
His consideration was like a needle gently piercing the shell of indifference she had built around herself.
A wave of hurt and frustration threatened to spill over again.
She sniffed hard, pushing the tears down.
"I'm going to a hotel."
"Which hotel? I haven't eaten either. Want to grab something together?" Shane's invitation was so casual. There was no trace of pity or condescension. It sounded like the most ordinary thing a friend could say.
She felt herself relax a little.
She gave him the hotel name.
"Alright, I'll be right over. Wait for me," Shane said, and hung up.
Bethany gripped her phone, staring out at the city lights streaming past the window, her feelings a whirlwind inside her.
She never imagined that, when she felt most alone and had no one to turn to, the hand reaching out would belong to an old friend she had lost touch with for years.
When she got to the hotel, Bethany checked in easily.
The receptionist noticed the injury on her face and gave her a sympathetic look but stayed professional, didn't ask anything, and quickly finished the check-in.
Bethany took her room key and stepped into the elevator.
She glanced at her reflection in the elevator mirror. Her hair was a mess, one side of her face was swollen, and there was still a trace of blood at the corner of her mouth. She gave herself a bitter, sarcastic smile.
This was probably the worst Christmas Eve of her life.
Her room was up on the twenty-eighth floor. It was a river-view suite with a killer view.
Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights sparkled and neon shimmered on the river below.
Inside, it was warm and inviting, feeling like a whole different world compared to the blizzard raging outside.
Bethany took off her coat and walked into the bathroom.
She looked at the mess on her face in the mirror, then used cold water to carefully wash away the blood at the corner of her mouth.
The icy water stung as it touched her wound.
But that pain was nothing compared to the ache in her heart.
She slipped into the hotel bathrobe and flopped onto the soft bed.
She was exhausted.
Her body was tired, but her heart was even more so.
She closed her eyes, but her mind kept replaying everything that happened at the dinner table.
She thought of Grandma's harsh shout, her father's slap, her sister-in-law's sarcasm, and her mother's tears.
It was like a silent black-and-white movie playing on loop, suffocating her.
She didn't know how much time had passed before the doorbell rang.
Bethany sat up with a start.
It was Shane.
She took a deep breath and walked over to open the door.
The man at the door looked even more put-together and grown up than Bethany remembered.
He wore a black cashmere coat and stood with perfect posture. He was strikingly handsome and carried himself with quiet confidence.
Time hadn't left a mark on him. If anything, he'd only gotten more attractive.
He had a bunch of takeout boxes in his hands.
The delicious aroma of food filled the room instantly.
Shane's eyes landed on her face, and when he saw the clear handprint, his gaze darkened.
But he didn't say a word. He smiled at her. "Merry Christmas, Bethany."
"Merry Christmas," Bethany said, stepping aside to let him in.
Shane set the takeout boxes on the coffee table, unpacking them one by one.
"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I picked up a few things I thought you might enjoy."
There was steamed white fish, boiled shrimp, and a plate of slow-braised pork.
Bethany's eyes locked onto the slow-braised pork, its glossy, rich sauce glistening under the light.
Shane caught her gaze and smiled. "It's the signature dish at this place. I thought you'd like it."
Bethany felt like something had slammed into her heart.
It was bittersweet, yet somehow warm.
The dish she had tried so hard to eat, the dish that had cost her so much humiliation, was now sitting right in front of her.
"What's wrong?" Shane asked, noticing she wasn't moving.
"Nothing," Bethany said, shaking her head as she sat down on the couch.
Shane handed her a fork.
"Come on, eat. You must be hungry."
Bethany took the fork, but didn't move.
"Shane, thank you."
"Thank me for what? For buying you dinner?" Shane raised an eyebrow. "Guess I'll have to keep a tab. Next time, it's your turn to treat me."
His playful tone easily dissolved Bethany's awkwardness.
Bethany realized he saw right through her bravado, but instead of calling her out, he chose to protect her dignity in the gentlest way.
She picked up her fork and took a piece of slow-braised pork.
It wasn't the one she couldn't get at the family dinner.
And it wasn't the one that rolled off and got all messy.
It was a clean, steaming piece of slow-braised pork, made for her.
She put it in her mouth.
The meat was so tender it melted on her tongue, rich but not greasy.
It was delicious.
It was a hundred times better than the slow-braised pork her grandma used to make.