Chapter 3

I knotted the bag shut and didn't stop.

A pair of couple's mugs sat on the kitchen counter. The blue one was Charles's, with a shallow chip along the rim.

The year he landed his first round of funding, he was too wired to sleep and paced the living room with a glass of water until two in the morning, until the mug caught the corner of the table.

I winced for the mug, but he just wrapped his arms around me. "Emma, we're going to have so many things one day. What's one chipped cup?"

We really did end up with a lot of things. Not one of them had my name on it.

I washed my own white mug, dried it, and set it in the box. The blue one stayed on the counter.

The medicine box was on the second shelf of the cabinet. The stomach pills inside were sorted by month, and the box nearest the front had expired two weeks ago.

Charles's stomach trouble was an old problem, and he forgot to eat whenever things got busy. I used to worry he'd forget his pills, so I'd set three reminders on his phone.

Then Sophia joined the company. The first time, she posted a photo in the staff group of him eating pancake, captioned:

[Good thing I got someone to eat a little something before the meeting.]

I stared at that photo for a long time that day. I was the one who'd made the breakfast that morning and left it in the container.

The note beside the spoon, though, was in Sophia's handwriting.

I packed the pills that hadn't expired into a small pouch, wrote out the dosage, and left it on the dining table.

It wasn't that I couldn't let go. It was that a person's life shouldn't get thrown out along with a relationship.

In the bedroom closet, my clothes took up a little under half of the left side. Charles's suits, shirts, and spare ties filled everything that was left.

The dark blue tie hanging at the very front was the one he'd worn the first time he met the Reed board.

He'd stood at the mirror, looped it twice, and still couldn't get it right, until he finally frowned and called for me. "Emma, give me a hand."

I stepped in front of him and drew the knot tight, bit by bit. He looked down at me and said, "Once I'm on the board, you're the first person I'm bringing home for dinner."

Later, at the Reed family dinner, he brought Sophia. His reason was very presentable. "The elders were all there that day. I was afraid they'd pepper you with questions, and you'd be uncomfortable."

I even smoothed it over for him back then. I said it was fine.

Thinking about it now, it was far from fine.

I took the tie out, laid it on the bed, and wrote another note: Back from the dry cleaner's last week, don't forget to put it away. Then I tucked it beside the medicine pouch.

The study held a stack of printouts. On top was the ninth draft of his business plan from last year's roadshow. In the bottom right corner of the cover was a small mark I'd made in pencil. The A3 version.

I'd revised it until four that morning while Charles slept slumped on the couch, his phone lighting up over and over. On the screen was a message from Sophia.

[Charlie, my dad says there might be a problem with this valuation model. Don't wear yourself out, I'll come find you first thing tomorrow.]

I gave it one glance and turned the phone face down.

The next day, when the roadshow ended, he hugged every single member of the team. When it was my turn, he only gave my shoulder a light pat because the investors were right there.

He said, "Good work."

I treasured those two words for the longest time. Looking at them now, they were like a discount coupon. Usable, but worth almost nothing.

I gathered my own laptop, my portable drive, and a few notebooks into my bag. The printouts stayed on the desk. Credit that wasn't mine wasn't something I'd keep safe for anyone anymore.

There was an old key under the coffee table. It was the key from the first office he ever rented. The office had changed three times since, and he'd never had the heart to throw it away.

He said that the key stood for the place where we started out together. Once I asked him, "And what about me?"

He laughed and pinched my cheek. "You're always here, of course."

Always here. Which meant I could always be overlooked.

My phone rang, an unknown number. I picked up, and on the other end was Alex Carter, Charles's assistant, his tone very careful.

"Ms. Wynn, Mr. Reed can't reach you. He asked me to check where you are right now."

I slid my ID into my bag as I answered. "Packing."

Alex clearly froze. "Are you going on a business trip?"

"Moving out," I said.

The line went quiet for a second.

"Ms. Wynn, Mr. Reed is still at the venue and might not be able to get away just yet. Could you wait until he's back to talk it over? He told you not to do anything rash."

I zipped the suitcase shut. "Tell him I'm not being rash."

"Well, Mr. Reed said once things wrap up, he'll—"

"Let him tend to his own business."

I hung up.

Not long after, Alex sent a text.

[Ms. Wynn, Mr. Reed says, please don't blow this up before he gets back.]

I looked at the words blow this up and didn't reply.