Chapter 2

Kaylee Ochoa came to pick me up on the day I was discharged from the hospital.

As soon as she walked into the room, she glanced at me, and her eyes were rimmed with tears.

"Look at you, you're so skinny. Where's Stuart?" she asked.

I took off my hospital bracelet and tossed it into the trash. "He's busy being someone else's savior."

Kaylee swore and snatched my bag. "You have to leave him. No one can talk you out of it."

I kept quiet.

Halfway through the drive, I handed her my phone.

After Kaylee saw the transfer record, she got so pissed she nearly smacked the steering wheel.

"A regular two thousand dollars? Spending money? He's never even been this consistent buying gifts for you, his legal wife," she snapped.

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

It was worse than that.

For the past three years, he had sent money to Isabel like clockwork on the 8th of every month.

Sometimes it was two thousand dollars.

Sometimes it was 2.5 thousand or three thousand.

And on every holiday or special occasion, he'd give her more money.

He even sent her gifts for Valentine's Day, birthday presents, toys for Children's Day, and birthday cakes.

I hadn't been completely unaware before.

But every time I asked, he always had an excuse.

Stuart would say, "She's divorced, poor thing.

"Her kid's still little; she needs someone to support her.

"We're just old friends.'

"Don't assume the worst."

I convinced myself over and over that it was normal for adults to help each other out.

But it wasn't until I was lying on the operating table that it finally hit me.

Every relationship that made me feel this miserable was messed up at its core.

If they were really ordinary friends, he wouldn't have defended her so instinctively.

He wouldn't always run straight to her whenever he had to choose between us.

He wouldn't have reacted to my request for divorce by worrying about his financing first, not about losing me.

When the car stopped outside, I didn't get out right away.

I looked up at the apartment where I had lived as his wife for three years, my chest feeling heavy.

Kaylee caught my hesitation. "Do you want me to come with you?"

I shook my head. "No, I need to do this on my own."

When I opened the door, the fingerprint lock gave a beep.

The place looked the same as when I left.

A potted white velvet plant I had recently repotted stood in the entryway. Half-used folic acid tablets lay on the living room coffee table.

The sofa cushions were in Isabel's favorite cream tone. The seaside sunset painting on the accent wall adopted the exact art style she had praised on social media years ago.

The first time I came to this apartment, Stuart asked if I liked it.

I said I did.

But honestly, I never liked anything cream-colored, and seaside sunsets weren't my thing either.

But I had been so desperate to make this marriage work back then that I was willing to put my own true preferences aside.

I later learned that nearly every design choice in this house had been pulled directly from Isabel's old social media posts.

Even the glass spice jars in the kitchen were the exact ones Isabel had shown off in her photos.

This apartment was never made for me.

I was only the one who moved in after.

I walked into the bedroom and opened the closet.

My clothes hung on the left, and his on the right, a clear line between us.

There was a black storage box sitting up on the top shelf.

I had never touched it before.

This time, I don't even know why, but I took it down.

As soon as I opened the box, my heart dropped.

Inside, it was filled with Isabel's things.

Old photos, concert ticket stubs, postcards she had written to Stuart, a faded scarf, and a Polaroid photo.

In the picture, Isabel, at twenty-four, was leaning against Stuart's shoulder, her smile radiant and carefree.

On the back, she had written: [When you've made it, marry me.]

The date was from ten years ago.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at it for a long time.

I sat there until the sky outside grew dark, little by little.

It turned out that these past three years, I was living in a memorial to his ex.

When my phone buzzed, I thought I was about to lose it.

But when I saw it was Stuart calling, I was oddly calm.

I answered.

"You home?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"I'll be home tonight. Let's talk," he said.

"Okay," I replied.

After I hung up, I put the black storage box back exactly where I had found it.

There was no point in throwing it, no point in making a scene.

It was enough just to know it existed.