Chapter 3 · My Dead Husband Isn't Dead

By the end of August, my morning sickness was getting worse.

Every morning, the smell of grease at the diner made me want to throw up, but I just gritted my teeth and pushed through.

Mary caught on pretty quick. She grabbed my hands, her face a mix of joy and heartache. "Sarah, this is James' flesh and blood. You've got to take care of yourself."

I just gave her a weak smile and didn't say anything.

Mary made me a big pot of mushroom soup and brought it over. I managed to get one bowl down before it came right back up.

She was pacing around, frantic. "Maybe you should close up the diner and just focus on the baby."

"No can do," I said, shaking my head. "If I don't work, there's no money coming in."

I had the 30 grand, but that was my safety net. I didn't know what the future held, so I needed every cent I could get.

During the worst of the morning sickness, the comment popped up again.

I was hunched over the stove, dry-heaving, when a line drifted past.

[After James got back to Oceanview City, he went back to the Carter estate first.]

[His grandfather nearly cried himself to death when he saw him. On the spot, he kicked the rest of the family out with nothing to their names and signed all the shares over to James. Overnight, he became the youngest CEO in the city.]

I spat out some bile and wiped my mouth.

Well, look at that. A corporate big shot.

I was married to a "repairman" for three years, only to find out I'd hitched my wagon to a billionaire in disguise. Those hands that fixed my fans, lamps, and coffee grinders were actually meant to be signing billion-dollar contracts.

[The very next day, James went to the Suttons. Emily had waited for him for three years and lost 20 pounds from the stress. The first thing James said to her was, "I'm sorry I kept you waiting."]

My hand faltered for a split second. The three years I spent as his wife were the same three years Emily waited for him.

It turned out that in his story, I was nothing more than a footnote in his "three-year exile."

The comment kept rolling: [Emily is the real heroine. She is beautiful, sharp, and totally devoted. Her chemistry with James is off the charts. Just wait until the wedding scene. James says—]

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see it. I really didn't.

But the comment didn't care about my feelings. It just kept on scrolling: [James says, "You're the only woman I've ever wanted to marry."]

In that moment, my hand instinctively pressed against my belly.

Then what about me? I asked silently. What was I to you? And what is this baby?

But I didn't cry. I had shed enough tears to last a lifetime. I washed the sour taste out of my mouth, splashed some water on my face, and went right back to kneading the dough.

*****

By the beginning of September, a new neighbor moved in next door to the diner.

It was an auto repair shop. The owner's name was Tom Baker. He was in his early thirties, tan and sturdy, with a flash of white teeth whenever he smiled.

On his first day, he walked over carrying a potted ivy. "Hey neighbor, just wanted to introduce myself. I'm Tom."

"Sarah," I replied, taking the plant and giving him a nod.

Tom was a real chatterbox, the polar opposite of James. James could go three days and barely say five words, but Tom could rattle off 50 in three minutes.

He said, "Hey, what's in these breakfast burritos? Bacon and egg? I'll take two. Do you have any sweet juice? If not, coffee's fine. I'll drink anything."

He asked, "You're running this diner all by yourself? Where's your husband?"

My hands faltered for a second. "He's gone."

Tom froze, a half-eaten burrito still in his mouth. "Oh man... I am so sorry. I really put my foot in my mouth."

"It's fine," I said.

After that, he never brought it up again, but he was there every morning like clockwork for two burritos and a coffee. Sometimes, if I were late closing up, he'd jog over to help me haul the tables and clean up.

"Don't lift that, Sarah. These tables are heavy. Watch your back," Tom said.

I glanced at him. No comment appeared.

That meant he wasn't part of the "plot." Or rather, he wasn't a main character in that "novel." He was just a regular guy. A truly ordinary person.

Chapter 3

By the end of August, my morning sickness was getting worse.

Every morning, the smell of grease at the diner made me want to throw up, but I just gritted my teeth and pushed through.

Mary caught on pretty quick. She grabbed my hands, her face a mix of joy and heartache. "Sarah, this is James' flesh and blood. You've got to take care of yourself."

I just gave her a weak smile and didn't say anything.

Mary made me a big pot of mushroom soup and brought it over. I managed to get one bowl down before it came right back up.

She was pacing around, frantic. "Maybe you should close up the diner and just focus on the baby."

"No can do," I said, shaking my head. "If I don't work, there's no money coming in."

I had the 30 grand, but that was my safety net. I didn't know what the future held, so I needed every cent I could get.

During the worst of the morning sickness, the comment popped up again.

I was hunched over the stove, dry-heaving, when a line drifted past.

[After James got back to Oceanview City, he went back to the Carter estate first.]

I spat out some bile and wiped my mouth.

Well, look at that. A corporate big shot.

[The very next day, James went to the Suttons. Emily had waited for him for three years and lost 20 pounds from the stress. The first thing James said to her was, "I'm sorry I kept you waiting."]

My hand faltered for a split second. The three years I spent as his wife were the same three years Emily waited for him.

It turned out that in his story, I was nothing more than a footnote in his "three-year exile."

The comment kept rolling: [Emily is the real heroine. She is beautiful, sharp, and totally devoted. Her chemistry with James is off the charts. Just wait until the wedding scene. James says—]

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see it. I really didn't.

But the comment didn't care about my feelings. It just kept on scrolling: [James says, "You're the only woman I've ever wanted to marry."]

In that moment, my hand instinctively pressed against my belly.

Then what about me? I asked silently. What was I to you? And what is this baby?

But I didn't cry. I had shed enough tears to last a lifetime. I washed the sour taste out of my mouth, splashed some water on my face, and went right back to kneading the dough.

*****

By the beginning of September, a new neighbor moved in next door to the diner.

It was an auto repair shop. The owner's name was Tom Baker. He was in his early thirties, tan and sturdy, with a flash of white teeth whenever he smiled.

On his first day, he walked over carrying a potted ivy. "Hey neighbor, just wanted to introduce myself. I'm Tom."

"Sarah," I replied, taking the plant and giving him a nod.

Tom was a real chatterbox, the polar opposite of James. James could go three days and barely say five words, but Tom could rattle off 50 in three minutes.

He said, "Hey, what's in these breakfast burritos? Bacon and egg? I'll take two. Do you have any sweet juice? If not, coffee's fine. I'll drink anything."

He asked, "You're running this diner all by yourself? Where's your husband?"

My hands faltered for a second. "He's gone."

Tom froze, a half-eaten burrito still in his mouth. "Oh man... I am so sorry. I really put my foot in my mouth."

"It's fine," I said.

"Don't lift that, Sarah. These tables are heavy. Watch your back," Tom said.

I glanced at him. No comment appeared.

That meant he wasn't part of the "plot." Or rather, he wasn't a main character in that "novel." He was just a regular guy. A truly ordinary person.