Chapter 2
I walked into the study, pulled Michael Bennett's folder out of the drawer, and handed it to him.
Michael didn't take it. His gaze shifted to the dining table.
On the table were fried eggs, coffee, and some sliced fruit.
Michael pursed his lips. "You made breakfast?"
"For myself," I replied.
Back then, since Michael didn't like greasy food in the morning, I learned to make porridge for him.
He thought coffee was bad for his stomach, so I stopped using the coffee machine altogether.
He didn't like runny eggs, so she always made sure to fry them until they were fully cooked.
Now, she made herself a runny egg, drank iced coffee, and ate strawberries.
Michael stared at the coffee, as if he'd been stung.
"Your stomach's not great either. You really shouldn't drink so much iced stuff," he said.
I deliberately picked up her cup and took a sip right in front of him.
"Feels good not having anyone telling me what to do," she said.
Michael's expression soured even more.
Then, his phone rang.
It was Clara calling.
Michael answered, his voice instantly softening. "What's wrong?"
Whatever Clara said on the other end, Michael's face grew serious.
Michael frowned. "The kid's got a fever? Take his temperature first, I'll be right there."
After hanging up, he grabbed the folder and headed for the door.
At the doorway, he turned back to look at me.
"Clara's kid isn't feeling well. I need to go," Michael said.
I nodded. "Take care."
Michael stood there, as if waiting for her to say something.
I thought for a second, then said honestly, "Don't forget to register. The Children's Medical Center is always packed."
"Don't forget to register. Children's Medical Center is always packed."
Michael's face fell completely.
After the door closed, I popped the last half of a strawberry into her mouth.
It was sweet and tangy.
Hits the spot.
Word that Clara was back in town spread through their circle of friends in less than three days.
Someone messaged me, trying to feel her out: [Heard Clara's back?]
I replied: [Yeah.]
[Is Michael Bennett okay?]
[He's too busy being Mr. Nice Guy to have any problems.]
The person sent a string of ellipses.
Everyone knew Michael had someone in his heart who was never going to be his.
They also knew I never made a scene and kept our life together.
His friends would say, "You're so easygoing."
His mother, Linda Bennett would say, "With you at home, I feel at ease."
Even Michael had said this to me before,
"You're different from everyone else. Being with you never feels exhausting."
Back then, I actually thought he was complimenting me.
It took me a while to realize what he really meant: he hoped I'd never have feelings, never need anything from him, and never cause him any trouble.
But Clara was different.
If Clara shed a single tear, Michael's heart would ache for her.
If she whispered, "I'm scared," he'd rush over in the middle of the night, no questions asked.
If her kid was feeling unwell, he'd take time off work to be by her side at the hospital.
If Clara said the light at her place was busted, Michael would grab his toolbox and head right over.
If her ex showed up causing drama, Clara would call Michael and he'd rush over to play the hero.
Michael was always on the move, like he was on autopilot all day long.
On the fourth night, Michael texted me: "Do we still have any fever patches at home?"
"Do we still have any fever patches at home?"
I stared at his message for three seconds before replying,
"Nope."
"I remember buying a box last time."
"I put it in your luggage. Check the side pocket of your suitcase."
After a while, he replied: "Can't find it."
"Can't find it."
" keep searching."
He didn't reply.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang.