I cut her off. “I saw you two at the hospital.
He’s the one you love. Drop the ‘brother‘ act.
Divorce me, and you can be together,
officially. Isn’t that what you want?”
She stared at me. “Ethan and I…we’re
soulmates. What were you and I?”
I met her gaze. “A debt repaid? A life saved?
Maybe.” I shrugged. “Whatever it was, it’s
over. The dream is over. Time to wake up. I’m
setting you free.”
She was silent for a long time. Just when I thought she’d agree, she said, “After my birthday.”
I paused. Her birthday. The day I saved her.
Our anniversary.
“Fine.”
As I turned to go to the guest room, she called out, “Sleep in our bed tonight. Or the
couch. The guest room’s taken.‘
“”
I turned back, incredulous. “Ethan?”
“Yes.”
<
“Sarah, are you serious?” My voice trembled.
I thought I was numb, but a wave of anger
washed over me.
She avoided my gaze, then rallied. “He needs
someone to look after him. He’s sick! I can’t just leave him alone in the hospital.”
“You know they have nurses, right?”
“They’re…rough. He deserves better. And I can make him soup, bring him things. Besides, I wanted him here so you wouldn’t get any…ideas.” She sounded increasingly self–righteous, almost defiant. “You’re home. What’s the problem?”
“No problem. I understand perfectly. I won’t be in the way.” I slammed the door and
walked out. As it closed I saw berk
the kitchen. Making Ethan soup. How
pathetic.
In all our years of marriage, Sarah hadn’t
lifted a finger in the kitchen. Now, she was
playing domestic goddess for another man.
I sat on a bench outside, replaying everything
I’d done for her. Me, a guy who lived on
instant noodles, mastering gourmet cooking for her. Me, a jeans–and–t–shirt guy, learning about fashion, hair, makeup, all for her. Me,
who couldn’t care less about celebrities,
memorizing every detail of her favorite stars,
their rivalries, their romances. Like a trained
dog.
I called my old friend, Chris. “Usual place. Bring smokes.”
The “usual place” was a sports bar we used
to frequent before I met Sarah. She hated the
smell of beer and cigarettes.
We sat in a dimly lit booth, cheap beer,
greasy appetizers, a pack of Marlboros. Like
old times, only older, wearier. We talked
about everything except my marriage. Chris
didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell. He’d always been
perceptive. He’d seen the subtle disdain
beneath Sarah’s polite facade. I hadn’t. Not
until the fertility clinic, the desperate
questions, her callous words: “Does biology
even matter? He’ll still call you Dad.” That’s when it hit me. She’d never respected me, never thought I was good enough, not even
worthy of being her child’s biological father.
I drank until I passed out.
I woke up on Chris’s couch, parched, I could
only imagine his wife’s fury at finding me
there. Thankfully, she was at work. I left a
silent apology and slipped out.
I had a text from Sarah. Details for her
birthday party. A penthouse suite at a five-
star hotel. The kind with two floors, seven
rooms, enough space for a banquet.
In the lobby, I ran into Melanie, Sarah’s
younger sister. Barely twenty, hair dyed every
color imaginable, goth makeup, dressed like a
rebellious teenager. She glared at me with
open contempt. Melanie had always loathed
- me. I wasn’t good enough for her “perfect”
sister. Unless I was as brilliant and handsome
as “Ethan.”
