Chapter 3

That afternoon, I took a long, blissful nap. When I woke, I brewed a pot of coffee, sat on the balcony with a novel, and let the warm sun soak into my skin. It was perfectly peaceful.

David returned in the evening, carrying a sad-looking plastic bag with takeout leftovers.

The sight of me, relaxed and content, seemed to enrage him further. He slammed the container onto the kitchen counter.

I didn't even look up from my book.

For dinner, I used the leftover fish and shrimp to make a spectacular seafood soup. From the kitchen, I could hear the clanging of pots as David angrily reheated his greasy leftovers.

After he ate, he tossed the oily plastic container into the sink and slumped back in front of the TV, clearly expecting me to clean it up like always.

I finished my soup, washed my plate and spoon until they sparkled, and walked out of the kitchen without so much as a glance at his mess in the sink.

"Emily!" he roared from the living room. "Didn't you see the dish in the sink?"

I turned with a smile. "Oh, I saw it. That's your dish. According to our agreement, we each clean up after ourselves. You can do it. I believe in you, Mr. Independent."

In the end, David washed his own damn dish. He did a terrible job, splashing water and soap suds all over the kitchen, but he did it.

I didn't watch. I just put on my headphones, got on the treadmill, and enjoyed the satisfying burn of a good run, sweat dripping down my face. It was glorious.

The first week of our "independent" life unfolded in this bizarre, silent truce.

I spent my days cooking elaborate meals for one, exercising, reading, and tending to my houseplants. David lived on a steady diet of takeout and cheap restaurant food, and a stress-sore broke out on his lip.

The common areas of our home, neglected by both of us, began to accumulate a thin layer of dust and grime.

He tried to "negotiate" the issue of housework with me several times. Each time, I shut him down with a simple, "That's not covered in our agreement."

"Emily, don't push it! You live here too! Does this filth not bother you?" he finally exploded, gesturing wildly at the dusty living room.

"It does," I said calmly, gently wiping the leaf of a fiddle-leaf fig. "That's why I keep my bedroom and my study impeccably clean. The living room is a shared space.

"If you find it dirty, you're free to hire a cleaning service. We can split the cost. Or, you could clean it yourself, and I will pay you for my half of the labor at the going market rate. Fifteen dollars an hour."

My response left him utterly speechless. Hire a cleaner? He was too cheap. Clean it himself? A retired "manager" like him, doing manual labor? Unthinkable.

And so, the living room remained filthy.

That weekend, David's phone rang. Even from the other room, I recognized the high-pitched tone he used only when talking to his mother.

"Mom? What is it? What? Eric got in another fight? He hurt someone, and now we have to pay? How much? Ten thousand dollars?"

His voice cracked on the last two words.

He clutched the phone and scurried onto the balcony, his voice dropping to a whisper. I didn't need to hear the rest.

His mother was undoubtedly putting on a five-star performance, weeping and wailing, begging her "successful" eldest son to save the day once again.

His precious younger brother, Eric Warren, was a hopeless case. A man in his forties had no job and no prospects. He was gambling, drinking, and brawling. Every time he screwed up, David was the one who paid to make it go away.

In the past, David would just take the money directly from our joint savings account. If I dared to complain, he would fly into a rage. "It's my money! I earned it! It's my duty to take care of my mother and my brother!"

Now, we were going Dutch.

After the call, David stormed in with a grim face, pacing like a caged animal.

I kept watching my show.

After a dozen laps, he finally couldn't stand it anymore. He sat down next to me and cleared his throat.

"Emily..." He was using his let's-make-a-deal voice.

"Yes?" I didn't turn my head.

"So, there's a bit of an emergency with my mother. She needs some cash, and, well," he said and rubbed his hands together, looking embarrassed, "you know, with me just retiring, my funds are a little tight at the moment."