Chapter 2
I smiled, didn't argue, and I didn't cry like I used to.
There was no need for it anymore, since I'd be leaving him soon.
On my laptop, the court evidence Michael had personally handed to me was playing.
It was security footage of Emily leaving his house right before her drunk driving incident.
In the video, Emily was wearing a spaghetti strap top, half-dragged, half-carried by Michael into the back seat of his Mercedes.
Then Michael climbed in after her.
Soon, the car started rocking.
Anyone with half a brain could see exactly what they were doing.
Michael was stunned for a moment, then reached out to pause the video.
But when he noticed how calm I was, not even a hint of wanting to argue, he stopped.
He withdrew his hand, a little frustrated.
Then he got up, about to head out. "No rush, just get ready at your own pace. I'll cook something for you."
After we got married, he never once cooked for me.
But Emily got a homemade meal from Michael delivered to her every single day, no matter the distance.
Rain or shine.
My hand paused imperceptibly for a moment.
Michael had already disappeared from view.
Less than half an hour later, I spotted a post from Emily on her social media.
It showed a perfectly packed lunchbox, captioned: [Mr. Stanton's signature lunch. Absolutely love it!]
I glanced at my phone. Just one text from Michael: [I'm busy today. Let's talk next time.]
Late at night, I lay in my hospital bed, slurping sandwiches, while the chatter outside kept getting louder.
"No way, did Mr. Stanton really book every digital billboard in Bayview City a week ahead just to celebrate Emily's birthday?"
"That's over the top. He never did anything like that before."
"Shh."
I went out to get some coffee, and the nurses all gave me odd looks.
Everyone here knew I was Michael's wife.
Just like how, a few years back, everyone knew Michael used to book out every digital billboard in Bayview City just to celebrate my birthday.
Outside, the city lights danced across the window. My hands trembled uncontrollably, and dizziness washed over me.
The cup slipped from my grasp and crashed to the floor. I knelt down, gathering the scattered food bit by bit, and gently placed it all into the trash.
Just then, a hand I knew all too well reached out to me, and I knew right away it was Michael.
It felt just like when he was eighteen, standing right in front of me.
He reached out, just like he always did whenever I got dizzy from low blood sugar.
He'd have a strawberry cake hidden behind his back, then bring it out for me, his eyes shining, hoping I'd tell him he did a good job.
Yeah, I liked strawberry cake too.
I reached out, taking his hand and using his strength to stand up.
Michael's voice came from above. "Why didn't you answer your phone?"
I didn't respond. Instead, I picked up my phone and glanced at the screen.
The screen wouldn't light up. I said, "It's dead."
"What do you mean?" When he saw my phone, his expression darkened with anger.
He jerked his hand away from mine like he was shaking off something disgusting.
That was when I noticed the thermos in his hand.
"I spent two hours grocery shopping and making you sandwiches, and you can't even answer your phone?" he snapped.
Something stirred inside me. I looked down and opened the lid.
The sandwiches were exactly the same as the ones I'd bought from the convenience store.
"I've already eaten," I gave a faint laugh, placed the thermos back in his hands, and walked away toward my hospital room.
Back in my hospital room, I checked my phone. Everyone in Bayview City was buzzing about how Michael had booked out every digital billboard.
But I was the only one who noticed a certain page.
Michael and Emily, both in their high school uniforms, were standing at the entrance to the school we'd graduated from, grinning ear to ear.
My high school classmates started messaging me, asking why there was someone else at the school gate where Michael had proposed to me.
I just smiled to myself and replied, [We're getting divorced soon.]
That night, Michael sent me a picture.
Our bed was filled with adorable plushies, all lined up perfectly.
[Didn't you say you liked these? I got them for you,] he texted.
Two years ago, when these plushies first launched, I held his hand and waited in line for hours to get one.
Back then, Michael let go of my hand and said something I still couldn't forget. "Do you really think you deserve something this adorable? Seriously, how old are you?"
But now, he went out and bought them himself, lining them up neatly on our bed.
Right after, a new message popped up in the chat. [Get out of the hospital soon.]
He didn't even bother with formalities.
I stared at the stack of paperwork in front of me, the looming court date inching ever closer.
I typed back a reply to him. [Got it.]