Chapter 3
Henry showed up again at dawn.
It was 7:10 AM.
He was carrying a thermos and a bag of bread.
He knocked softly.
"Simon, I made some oatmeal for Jane," Henry said.
He glanced at Jane, who was still asleep.
Then he turned his attention to me.
"Simon, why do you have such dark circles? Didn't sleep last night?" Henry asked.
"The chair's not comfortable," I replied.
"I'll cover for you this afternoon. Go home and get some rest," Henry said.
I looked at him.
His expression was sincere, but his eyes were bloodshot.
Guess he didn't get much sleep either.
I felt guilty.
Yeah, it was real guilt.
"No need," I said. "I can handle it."
Henry set the thermos on the nightstand and handed me the bread.
"Simon, you should eat something too," he said.
I took it.
"Thanks," I said.
He nodded, then glanced at Jane again.
His gaze lingered on her face for two seconds.
Two whole seconds.
I counted every second.
Then he looked away and shot me a smile.
"I'm heading to the Criminal Investigation Unit now. Call me if you need anything," he said.
The door closed.
I gripped the bag of bread.
The plastic made a soft rustling sound.
Two seconds.
Those two seconds he watched her.
Something suddenly popped into my head.
Henry was twenty-eight and still single.
Jane had asked him why he wasn't dating anyone.
He said, "I haven't met the right one."
Jane teased him, "You've got so much going for you. Don't be too picky."
He just smiled and didn't say anything.
I was right there next to them.
I still had the spatula in my hand.
I caught the way his smile curved.
I could see what he wanted to say but didn't.
But I didn't ask.
Three years had passed, and I hadn't asked once.
What would be the point?
Jane would say, "You're overthinking it."
Then she'd slap me with the "you're questioning my professionalism" card.
I'd been weighed down by that accusation for three years.
It was so stifling I could barely breathe.
The bread was dry.
I took a couple swigs of water, then shoved the rest of the bread back into the bag.
It was 8:30 AM.
Jane woke up.
As soon as she opened her eyes, she turned her head, not toward me.
Her eyes went straight to the door.
"Did Henry stop by?" she asked.
With her sharp sense of smell, she must have caught the scent of the oatmeal.
"Yeah, he was here," I said. "He made some oatmeal."
"Is he okay? Did he get hurt last night?" she asked.
The first thing she asked about was Henry.
She didn't ask if I got any sleep last night.
She didn't ask if I'd eaten.
All she cared about was whether Henry got hurt.
I stood up and served her some oatmeal.
Steam rose from the plain oatmeal as I opened the thermos.
I fed her, one spoonful at a time.
She'd open her mouth, swallow, then do it all over again.
She didn't even think to ask me until she'd eaten a little less than half a bowl.
"Did you eat?" she asked.
"Yeah," I replied.
She nodded.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Where's my phone?" Jane suddenly asked. "I need to check in with the Criminal Investigation Unit, let them know I'm safe."
"You just got out of surgery," I said.
"Just a quick message," she replied.
I grabbed her phone from the cabinet and handed it to her.
She unlocked it with her fingerprint, one-handed.
I never knew her passcode.
I meant the numeric passcode, not fingerprint access.
She never told me.
I never asked.
She typed slowly, her left hand still a bit stiff, so she held the phone with her right and tapped out each word one by one.
I glanced at the screen.
She wasn't messaging the Criminal Investigation Unit group.
She was DMing Henry.
Only one line:
[I'm fine. Don't blame yourself.]
After sending that, she finally opened the Criminal Investigation Unit group chat.
She typed: [Reporting in. I'm still alive, so no need to worry.]
Messages started flooding in.
She smiled, but the movement tugged at the wound on her back, making her hiss in pain.
"Don't move," I said.
"Alright, alright," she said, scrunching her nose as she set her phone down. "Go ask the doctor when they'll take out my stitches."
I stepped out.
I stood in the hallway instead of going to find the doctor.
I leaned against the wall.
I took a deep breath.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
She'd been out of surgery for less than twelve hours.
The first thing she asked about was Henry's injuries.
The first message she sent was to comfort Henry, telling him not to blame himself.
And me?
For three years, I'd sat beside a woman who, even with a 102.2°F fever, would say, "I'll just take some ibuprofen."
I thought I could keep being there for her.
But last night, when she said "it's not convenient," that snapped the last thread.
I felt for the phone in my pocket.
The agreement was saved in my notes app.
Just one more step, print it out.
I steadied myself and walked over to the nurse's station.
"Excuse me, when will the doctor be making rounds?" I asked.
"9:30 AM," the nurse replied, glancing up at me. "You don't look so good. Want me to check your blood pressure?"
"No, thanks," I said.
I went back to the room.
Jane was asleep again.
Her phone screen was still lit up, still open to Henry's chat.
Henry had sent a voice message.
I didn't open it.
But I saw how long it was.
47 seconds.
Did a simple reassurance really call for a forty-seven-second reply?
I put her phone back in the cabinet.
I didn't look through it.
It wasn't about trust.
I just didn't want to find out for myself.
I sat back down in the chair.
I closed my eyes.
Not to sleep.
To remember.
All the little things I'd missed over the past three years.
Henry came over for dinner at least twice a week.
Jane always kept Henry's favorite yogurt in the fridge.
They had their own code words, "Plan Three," "the usual spot," "that thing."
Every time I asked what they meant, Jane would just say, "It's work stuff. You wouldn't get it."
I ran my own design studio.
Freelance.
Not bad money, but to her, it probably didn't mean as much as a single bullet.
I never really got her world.
And she never tried to let me in.