Chapter 3
Charlotte and I met in college.
Back then, she wasn't a company owner yet but the hardest-working student in the School of Finance, always sitting in the front row, her notes packed with details.
The first time I ever talked to her was in the cafeteria.
She was standing at the counter with her tray, but her card didn't have enough balance. The cafeteria lady paused with the spoon mid-air.
The people behind her were getting impatient.
Her face was tense, her fingers gripping her meal card so hard her knuckles were pale.
I handed her my card.
"Use mine," I offered.
She turned to me, her eyes wary.
"No, thanks," she refused.
"I'm getting food, too. It'll be faster if we pay together," I said.
The meal cost two bucks and 50 cents.
Later, she tried to pay me back three bucks, but I refused. She slipped the money into my book.
Later, when she started her own business, I was always there for her, running around to meet clients, waiting with her in office lobbies, and staying up with her in the freezing winter mornings to tweak proposals.
She had a weak stomach, and if she missed a meal, she'd get stomachaches. So I always kept stomach medicine and saltine crackers in my bag for her.
The night her first round of funding came through, she got drunk and hugged me, crying on the street.
"Ethan, I swear I'll never let myself go broke again, and I'll never let anyone around me suffer because of me," she said.
I believed her words back then.
After we got married, Charlotte made sure I never went broke.
But somehow, I never had any cash in my pocket.
My paycheck, bonus, and year-end reward were all handed over to her.
"Married couples should be transparent about money. We need to plan our finances together," she said.
When I wanted to buy a pair of 400-dollar running shoes, she looked at the order, frowning.
"It's not like you're a pro athlete. A pair of 70-dollar shoes is good enough for you," she said.
For my mom's birthday, I wanted to buy her a cashmere scarf for 280 dollars.
Charlotte slid my phone back across the table.
"Old folks don't care about fancy stuff. Get her some fruit. Don't pamper her too much," she said.
However, when Andrew came back from abroad, she booked a 700-dollar-per-person restaurant.
I reminded her, "We've already paid the mortgage and car loan this month."
She retorted, "Andrew returned from abroad. We can't be stingy for his welcome party."
I watched as she changed clothes.
She slipped on the dress I gave her the day I asked her to marry me. Standing in front of the mirror, she asked, "How do I look?"
"You look great," I remarked.
She picked up her earrings and put them on. "You don't have to come with me. Everyone there will be Andrew's former classmates. You won't know anyone."
That night, I sat in the living room, eating the half plate of pasta she'd left from lunch.
The pasta was stuck together in a soggy lump, and a greasy layer of cold oil floated on top of the sauce.
Charlotte came home around two in the morning, reeking of alcohol, her heels banging against the cabinet by the door.
I went to help her.
She leaned against me, blurting out, "Andrew, stop messing around."
My hands froze.
She opened her eyes, saw it was me, and immediately pushed me away.
"Why are you still up?" she asked.
"How much did you drink?" I asked.
She rubbed her temples.
"It was a business dinner. Don't be so nosy," she said.
The next day, she sent Andrew a voice message, her voice barely above a whisper. [Thanks for driving me home last night. Did you make it back okay?]
I was in the kitchen making scrambled eggs when a drop of hot oil splashed onto the back of my hand, leaving a small blister.
Charlotte noticed but said casually, "Keep the heat low. Don't waste the oil."
I didn't say anything.
'Hang in there a little longer.' That was what I kept telling myself back then.
It was not like I didn't have a temper.
I couldn't forget the way she had clung to me, sobbing on the side of the road, or how she promised I'd never have to suffer because of her.
I remembered the year her startup crashed, and I sold the camera my dad had left me, so she could make payroll.
In my opinion, loving someone meant holding them tighter when they were at their sharpest and giving in a little more when they were scared.
But later, I realized that if I pampered someone for too long, they start to think I was meant to take the pain.
On the day of the car accident, I was on the way to the warehouse in West Crackton to pick up the contract for Charlotte.
She'd forgotten the documents and called me up at 10:30 A.M. that day.
"Ethan, go get it. The client needs to sign this afternoon," she said.
I was running a fever, and my head was spinning, but before I could suggest sending her assistant instead, she was already sounding annoyed.
"Quit stalling. It's only one file. It's not like you're some big shot," she snapped.
The rain was coming down hard.
As I was riding my scooter under the overpass, a truck swerved and clipped me, sending me flying.
The truck's side grazed my left leg, and I crashed into a puddle.
Rainwater poured into my mouth, all muddy and gritty.
I called Charlotte three times, but she didn't pick up.
A passerby was the one who called the ambulance.
When I woke up in the hospital, my pant leg had been cut open, and my leg was wrapped in bandages. The doctor said I had nerve damage and needed immediate treatment.
The first thing I did was reach for my phone and message Charlotte: [I got into a car accident. I'm at Crackton City Hospital]
She didn't reply until half an hour later: [Don't joke about stuff like that.]
I snapped a picture of my hospital bed number and sent it to her.
It took her two hours to actually show up.
Andrew Scott walked in right behind her.
He was holding a flyer for an art exhibition, looking genuinely sorry.
"Sorry, Ethan. Lottie was with me meeting the curator. She only rushed over when she heard you had an accident," Andrew said.
Charlotte shot him a glare.
"Why are you explaining that?" she snapped.
Watching them stand there together, I suddenly felt like the hospital room was way too cramped.
The doctor came in with a clipboard and started talking about the risks, the surgery, and the upfront payment.
Charlotte's first question was, "Can we wait and see?"
The doctor replied, "We can, but it's not a good idea to delay."
She asked, "Will he die if we don't do the surgery?"
For a moment, the whole hospital room went quiet.
The doctor's expression changed.
"It won't kill him, but he might end up with some lasting problems," he said.
Charlotte let out a sigh of relief.
"Then let's wait and see," she said.
I lay there, the numbness from the anesthesia fading, and the pain started stabbing deep into my bones.
I stared at her.
"Charlotte, I don't want to end up crippled," I said.
She set her bag down on the chair and rubbed her temples.
"Don't be so dramatic. The doctor didn't say it was definite," she said.
Andrew stood nearby and said quietly, "Lottie, maybe we should pay the deposit now?"
For a moment, I was actually kind of grateful to him.
But Charlotte turned to him right away.
"You don't get it. He always panics whenever something happens. I can't let myself get dragged along by his emotions all the time," she said.
I closed my eyes.
The light was a searing red behind my eyelids, hot and stifling.
'So being scared of ending up crippled is me being dramatic, huh?' I thought.