Chapter 4
Chapter 3
Before Emily moved in, Michael and I had our share of arguments.
That was life. Every couple had their own little battles.
Mortgage payments, car insurance, our parents, utility bills, who worked late and who cooked, and where to spend the holidays.
Every single thing could spark a fight.
But after every fight, we'd still sit down and share a meal together.
He'd always fish out the ginger pieces I didn't like.
I'd leave a light on for him whenever he was up late working.
It wasn't some epic love story, but it felt like home.
Until she showed up.
She was Emily.
The first time I saw her was at the entrance of our community.
She was standing in the rain, pulling two suitcases, with half her hair drenched.
When Michael got out of the car and saw her, he froze.
I remember I was smiling when I asked him, "Do you know her?"
He said, "She's a college classmate."
Emily looked up at him.
"Long time no see, Michael," she said.
Standing under the umbrella, I suddenly felt like I was an outsider.
Later, I found out she wasn't some random classmate.
She was the girl he'd had a crush on for three years in college, but never managed to win over.
She was also the chapter of his youth he always said was over.
That day, he helped her carry her suitcases.
I stood there, watching him pick up the heaviest one.
Emily said in a gentle voice, "You really don't have to go to all that trouble."
He replied, "It's nothing, really. Happy to help."
Soon, that became his daily routine.
He'd fix her lights.
He'd pick up her medicine.
He'd even go with her to the doctor.
He'd help her haul her packages.
He'd casually eat at her place.
And he'd let our dinner get cold on the table.
Every time he came back, he'd try to explain.
"She moved here and doesn't know anyone.
"She's not really healthy, and she's pretty shy.
"She won't bother me for too long.
"Don't let it get to you," he often said.
I once asked him, "Doesn't she have any friends?"
He said, "Some things, it's not really something you can ask friends to help with."
I pressed on, "So what about me?"
He acted like he didn't understand.
Or maybe he understood perfectly, but didn't want to answer.
*****
After that soup, we gave each other the silent treatment for three days.
He didn't come downstairs at all during those three days.
Emily didn't text him either.
On the surface, everything seemed to go back to normal.
On the fourth night, after he finished his shower, his phone rang.
He glanced at it, then set it face down on the table.
I was drying my hair.
"Why don't you answer it?" I spoke.
He said, "It's some spam."
I walked over and picked up his phone.
The screen lit up.
Emily had sent a photo.
There was a red mark on her wrist, looking fresh and raw.
It was a light.
Looked like she caught it in a door.
Underneath the photo, she wrote: [It's fine, I can take care of it myself. No need to worry.]
I handed the phone back to him.
"Guess that spam can take photos now?" I said.
His face changed in an instant.
He called her right away.
No one picked up.
He tried again.
Still no answer.
He started getting dressed.
"You're going again?" I asked.
He said, "She might be in trouble."
"Why don't you call the police first?"
He paused.
"It's not that serious," he said.
"Then what is serious enough?" I shot back.
"She's not answering her phone."
"So, because she doesn't answer, you're running downstairs in the middle of the night? What if I don't answer my phone one day? Would you be as anxious about me?"
He looked at me.
His eyes held no answer.
He went on lacing up his shoes.
I blocked the door.
"If you walk out that door tonight, don't bother coming back," I said.
He looked at me, his gaze conflicted.
"Sophia Lane, don't push me," he said.
It was the first time he'd ever called me by my full name.
That was the first time I realized he could be harsh after all.
He never had the heart to be harsh with anyone else. I moved out of his way.
"Fine," I said.
He left.
After the door closed, I didn't cry.
I went to the kitchen and dumped the soup down the drain.
That soup had been simmering for three hours.
He'd mentioned this morning that he wanted ribs for dinner.
I washed the dishes and turned off the living room lights.
Then I reached for my suitcase.
It wasn't out of spite.
It was because, suddenly, everything became clear to me.
The scariest thing about a home wasn't someone stepping in.
It was when the person inside opened the door themselves, and then turned around and blamed you for trying to keep the wind out.