Chapter 2
Seeing how careful Evelyn was with herself, I finally understood why Samuel was in such a rush.
She was pregnant. In two months, she'd start showing. He didn't want her walking around with a belly and no title.
Sensing my stare, Evelyn placed a hand over her still-flat stomach. "Sammy must have talked to you about the asset division. I don't have a problem with it. Just split it however it's supposed to be split.
"You two have been together for so long. You wouldn't want things to get ugly at the end, right?"
She sounded just like Samuel. I could practically hear the conversations they must have had behind my back, how many times they had complained about me dragging my feet, refusing to let go.
"If I don't divorce him, you'll never get to be his wife. Are you worried people will judge your kid for being born out of wedlock?" I said, my voice cold.
Evelyn's expression didn't change, but her eyes were full of contempt. "You think I'm shameless? That I got here by playing dirty?
"You two don't even love each other anymore, but you just keep clinging on. Isn't that just as disgusting?"
I guessed that somewhere along these seven years of marriage, thirty-five-year-old me had turned into someone timid—someone who didn't even dare to make one angry phone call.
I straightened up. The moment I lifted my hot coffee, a sharp pain tore through my abdomen.
The room spun. I nearly collapsed and only stayed upright by clinging to the table.
Evelyn grabbed her bag and stared at me like I was a threat. "If anything happens to this baby, Sammy will come after you."
I held in the wave of pain clawing through me and gripped the table harder. "Samuel told you not to meet me, right? If he finds out you pushed me for a divorce behind his back..."
Evelyn's face twitched. She muttered, "Cut the act."
*****
When I got home, I blacked out the moment I stepped through the door.
When I woke up, it was already the next day.
A thin line of light slipped through the curtains. The floor was cold. The entryway was a mess. Samuel hadn't come home.
I used the wall to pull myself up, dragging my exhausted body toward the medicine cabinet for painkillers.
But when I opened it, there wasn't a single bottle of pain relief—only neatly sorted vitamins and different brands of hangover pills.
Each bottle was covered with my handwriting. They were notes about when Samuel needed supplements and which brand worked faster when he had a hangover.
Underneath them sat a small notebook: [Feb 27 — That Pierce Guy picked out all the fruit from his lunch again. Made him take two vitamin C tablets as punishment.]
[Mar 6 — That Pierce Guy tried to play hero at the company dinner, got wasted, threw up, and rambled the whole ride home. Made him no alcohol and three days of bland chicken soup to settle his stomach as punishment.]
[Mar 13 — That Pierce Guy forgot his hangover pills again...]
The entries were frequent at the start, then fewer and fewer—until it was nothing but blank pages.
I held those damp, wrinkled sheets between my fingers, unable to gather myself for a long time.
My phone buzzed. It was a message from my mother: [Lil, it's been so long since you and Sam came home. Your dad and I really miss you. Thanksgiving is coming up. Are you and Sam coming back this year?]
I pulled myself out of my thoughts, wiped my eyes, and opened Samuel's chat window.
Row after row of messages, and only a handful of replies from him.
[Saw this tie while shopping—thought it'd look great on you.]
[This plant looks just like a giraffe. Doesn't it remind you of the one we saw on safari?]
[Found the song you used to love. Haven't heard it in ages.]
[It's raining. Don't forget to bundle up. I slipped a scarf into your suitcase.]
[Made chicken soup tonight, and your favorite mashed potatoes.]
Samuel replied: [Got a last-minute business trip.]
Everything I shared had turned into a one-woman show, and the replies he did send were perfunctory at best.
The last message I'd sent him was two months ago. It was a reminder: [Don't forget tomorrow. We promised my parents we'd visit.]
He still hadn't replied.
I called Samuel, and it wasn't until my third try that he finally picked up.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Thanksgiving is coming. My parents were hoping we'd go back for a visit," I said.
There was a long silence. Then Samuel sighed, sounding almost irritated.
My heart dropped. Before he proposed, Samuel had worried I'd get homesick. To reassure my parents and me, he promised we'd spend every holiday with them and visit at least once every two months.
But now we hadn't gone home together in over half a year.
"We'll talk about it later," he said.
Just as he was about to hang up, I quickly cut in, "You promised me."
*****
Samuel did come home on the day of the visit.
He looked at me coolly as I got into the passenger seat. "Lily, this is the last time. They'll find out about us sooner or later. I've already given you more than enough time."
The scenery blurred past the window, and the little bell on the charm hanging from the mirror jingled nonstop.
It was cheerful, but unbearably loud.
Samuel attended many business dinners, so he always kept soft music playing in the car to unwind.
I used to pick quiet decorations for him, and his favorite had been the lavender sachet I stitched to help him relax.
But now it had been replaced with cold, clinking metal trinkets that rattled with every bump in the road.
I stared at the tangled chains on the charm and swallowed the sting in my throat. "Why did you lie to me?"
Why did he tell me he was on a business trip while he was in another city lighting fireworks for someone else?
Why did he promise we'd do a hundred things together, yet leave the middle of our notebook completely blank?
Why did the man who once knelt down and promised he'd love me forever turn around and shower another woman with every romantic gesture he used to save for me?
I couldn't wrap my head around it.
Samuel slammed on the brakes. His gaze was as cold as ice as he looked at me. "Lily, I didn't know you cared so much about lies and betrayal."