Chapter 2

Back in the small apartment I lived in before marriage, the first thing I did was take a shower.

As the hot water washed over me, I kept checking my skin for any lingering marks.

The wounds from my previous nine deaths never showed up in the next time, but the memories always did.

I remembered the look of disgust and finality in Charles's eyes as he shoved me down the stairs.

I remembered the sickening crunch of my bones when the car slammed into me.

I remembered the nurse's cold, empty stare as she forced pills down my throat every day in the asylum.

Those memories were like brands, seared deep into my soul.

When I got out of the shower, my phone was lit up with dozens of missed calls, every single one from Charles.

I didn't block him; I switched my phone to silent.

Then I called my lawyer to confirm the divorce agreement was legally binding.

My lawyer gently reminded me, "Ms. Summers, if Mr. Stanton refuses to sign, the divorce process could drag on for a long time."

"That's fine," I replied. "I've got all the time in the world."

After all, if I failed again this time, I might end up back at square one.

But somehow, I knew I wasn't going back, not this time.

This time, everything was going to change.

It was late at night when the doorbell suddenly rang.

Peering through the peephole, I saw Charles outside. His hair was a mess, his tie askew, and he had a cake box in his hand.

It was my favorite red velvet cake.

Every anniversary, I'd make this cake and wait for him, but he never once came home to eat it.

At that moment, he was the one bringing the cake to me.

Wasn't that ironic?

I didn't open the door.

Charles started knocking, his voice dull and heavy. "Julia, open the door. Can we talk?"

I leaned against the door, saying nothing.

"I know you're in there, Julia. I can see the lights are on." He kept knocking, his voice unusually pleading. "Just ten minutes, please?"

I still didn't move.

It went quiet outside for a few seconds, then I heard Charles's voice, low and rough. "Today... is our anniversary."

I nearly burst out laughing.

So, he did remember.

He remembered it was our anniversary. He knew I'd be waiting, and he knew I'd be let down.

But for the past nine times, he always chose Evelyn over me, or buried himself in work at the office until midnight.

Since I finally stopped caring, he showed up at my door with the cake.

"Charles," I finally said through the door, "Take it back. I don't like it anymore."

There was a dead silence outside.

After a long pause, he said, "You used to love it."

"People change," I replied. "You once said you'd never love me, and now you're standing at my door. For me, it's my taste that's changed. What about you? Is it loneliness?"

I knew my words were harsh.

But I was tired, so tired.

With ten times, hundreds of days and nights, I'd burned through every last bit of love, every spark of passion, every shred of dignity I had left.

"Julia..." His voice was rough with emotion. "I'm sorry."

I closed my eyes.

For ten years, I'd been waiting for those words.

All those nights he never came home, every time he left me for Evelyn, every time he used the cruelest words to hurt me, I was always waiting for that apology.

Since I finally heard it, all I felt was how absurd it was.

"No need to apologize," I said. "Go home."

"I'm not leaving."

"Suit yourself." I turned and headed back to my bedroom, slipped in my earplugs, and forced myself to sleep.

When I opened the door the next morning, Charles was still there.

He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, his expensive suit rumpled and creased. The cake box was by his leg, the red velvet inside a melted mess.

At the sound of the door, he snapped his head up, eyes bloodshot and weary.

"You're awake..." he rushed to stand, wobbling as his legs had gone numb.

I looked at him, keeping my voice steady. "I have to get to work. Could you move?"

"Let me give you a ride."

"No thanks. I'll call a cab."

"Julia." Charles grabbed my arm. "Can we please have a real conversation?"

I jerked my arm free, saying each word with icy clarity, "Charles, the divorce papers are already signed. We're waiting for the court to make it official. As for anything else, there's nothing left to discuss."

"I don't believe it." Charles shook his head. "I can't believe you suddenly stopped loving me. It must be something I did wrong. Tell me what it is, and I'll change."

Seeing him almost begging, so humble, I suddenly remembered the ninth time.

That time, when I found out I was pregnant, I excitedly told him, only for him to say, "Get rid of it."

Through tears, I asked him why, and he replied, "Because you don't deserve it."

Back then, he was aloof and superior, looking at me like I was garbage to him.

But at that moment, he was acting so meek in front of me.

"Charles," I said quietly, "do you remember where you were on my birthday last month?"

His face fell.

"You were out shopping for a wedding dress with Evelyn," I answered for him. "She didn't end up marrying you, but you spent the entire day with her."

"I..."

"Three years ago, when my dad was in critical condition, I called you thirty-seven times, and you never answered. Later, you told me you were in a meeting, but I checked your calendar. You were at the airport, picking up Evelyn."

Charles's face drained of all color.

"And this," I said, pulling a hospital report from my bag and handing it to him, "is from when I went to the hospital six months ago."

He took it with shaky hands, and when his eyes landed on the words: moderate depression, he went stiff.

"The doctor asked me what was making my life so hard. I told him, 'My husband doesn't love me, but he won't let me go.'"

"That's not how it was..." Charles's voice shook. "I didn't know... You never really told me..."

"I did," I cut him off. "I told you over and over. I said, 'Charles, I'm miserable.' I said, 'Charles, can you stay with me?' I said, 'Charles, I'm at my breaking point.'

"But every single time, you said, 'Julia, stop being dramatic.'"

I took the report back, tore it up, and threw the scraps in the trash. "I'm done fighting, Charles. I'm letting you go and setting myself free."

With that, I walked past him and headed for the elevator.

Charles didn't come after me.

As the elevator doors slid shut, I saw him standing there, desperately trying to piece together the torn-up hospital report.

His shoulders were shaking.