Chapter 2
I kept scrolling through Vivian's Twitter. Her latest update was a retweet: [So romantic. I wish someone would send me a Valentine's message written on the beach.]
The timestamp read 1:00 p.m. Christopher had reached out to me at 1:05 p.m..
It was just five minutes. That was all it took for him to act on it—proof of how eager he was.
But I clearly remembered Christopher never liked romance, nor did he care about trendy gestures.
On our very first Valentine's Day, I had begged and pleaded until he finally agreed to go with me to an amusement park.
Rumor had it that if a couple kissed when the Ferris wheel reached the very top, they would stay together forever.
But Christopher turned his head away.
Bathed in the glittering lights all around us, I looked at him with hurt in my eyes.
He said softly, full of apology, "Sorry, I'm not used to kissing in public."
I pouted, complaining, "But if so, then we'll never be together forever."
He shot back, "Rachel, don't be childish. That's nonsense. Since when does love depend on a Ferris wheel kiss?"
Back then, I accused him of not understanding romance. But now, I knew it. It wasn't that he didn't like romance. He just didn't want it with me.
I scrolled further down, spying on the sweetness that belonged to another woman.
[Mr. Bennett took me abroad on vacation. I'm so happy.]
[Ugh. I just stepped outside and already tripped. Such bad luck]
[I went to the hospital, but thankfully Mr. Bennett took care of me.]
The photo attached was of a leg wrapped in plaster.
My hand trembled so badly that it took several tries before I managed to open the picture.
Finally, I clutched my phone tight, leaned back against the nightstand, and shut my eyes as tears streamed endlessly down my cheeks.
I couldn't bear to imagine his betrayal.
After a long while, I sent Christopher a message: [What are you doing?]
I prayed silently in my heart, hoping he would tell me the truth.
[I'm busy,] Christopher replied.
The edge of my phone dug into my palm, sharp enough to sting. I forced myself to sound casual. [If you don't come back soon, you'll miss Valentine's Day. We promised to spend it together. If you don't, I swear I'll fly overseas to find you.]
Christopher immediately sent a voice message, probably afraid I'd actually book a ticket while he was still typing.
His tone was rushed and laced with impatience. "Rachel, stop throwing a tantrum. Be good. You know how busy I am. I've got so much on my plate already—don't make it harder. I'll come back as soon as I'm done. I'll make it up to you with a gift."
I exited the chat.
And then a wild thought hit me.
I would go to Sincbear and find Christopher.
Christopher was four years older than me. I first met him at a bar.
That was the first time I had stepped out of the poor, remote town where I grew up.
My parents valued sons over daughters. They even went behind my back and arranged a marriage for me—with a fifty-year-old widower.
To them, my happiness didn't matter. What mattered was the money they would get in exchange—money to build a house for my younger brother.
One of the volunteer teachers from the city secretly slipped me some money and urged me to leave, to see the world outside.
With no one to rely on, I set out for Anniwood all by myself. My very first job was as a waitress in a bar.
On my first day, I ran into a difficult customer.
Christopher happened to be there, drinking heavily, clearly in a bad mood.
I never expected him to stand up for me, shielding me from the guest's harassment.
After driving the man away, Christopher looked straight at me and asked if I'd be willing to manage his household affairs, with a monthly salary.
He was strikingly handsome. Of course, I said yes. To me, he was the second person who had ever treated me kindly—the first being my teacher.
That night, Christopher drank far too much and lost control.
He kept touching my face over and over, mumbling to himself.
I felt awkward and uneasy.
His friends quickly pulled him away. Only then did I learn he had just gone through a breakup that night.
Later, I began working at Christopher's house. Without the haze of alcohol, he was distant, composed, as though that drunken episode at the bar had never happened.
He treated me with courtesy. When we crossed paths, he would simply give me a polite nod.
Even so, I fell for him.
He was nothing like the men back in my hometown.
Christopher was always well-groomed, clean, and refined. Most importantly, he respected me.
He wasn't like my father, who spat out bitch every time he spoke to me.
He wasn't like the jerks who hung around the streets late at night, whistling at girls and spewing crude remarks.
The turning point in our relationship came on a night when Christopher had too much to drink.
Alcohol loosened his tongue. That was when I learned, by chance, that his first love had gone abroad after college. She had rejected his proposal and never even said when—or if—she would return.
Munching on the snacks he had brought back, I spoke with my mouth full, "That's easy. Just follow her overseas."
He stared at me and gave a bitter laugh. "She doesn't love me."
Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I instantly regretted my careless words.
But he found my blush genuine and endearing.
And that was how we started dating.
During our time together, it was usually me chattering nonstop around him.
At night, while Christopher worked beside me, I would gossip away. He rarely responded, but I still felt giddy. Just having him by my side was enough to make me happy.
Sometimes, though, I pouted and complained about how cold he seemed.
Once, sulking while chopping vegetables, I nicked my finger with the knife.
Christopher immediately grabbed my hand, frantically searching the medical kit. He even stubbed his toe against a chair but didn't so much as flinch.
His eyes had been filled with unmistakable affection.
But now, on Valentine's Day, he whispered sweet words to another woman.