After His Mistress Scattered My Brother’s Ashes

The fluorescent lights in the corridor buzzed. I sat with my hands folded in my lap and stared at the scuff marks on the linoleum. Someone had dragged something heavy across the floor. The marks were long and dark.

Footsteps approached. I didn't look up.

"Ms. Wallace?"

I raised my head. The surgeon stood in front of me. Phillip Shen. I remembered his name from the consent forms I'd signed six hours ago. He looked tired. There were creases around his eyes.

"I'm very sorry," he said quietly. "We did everything we could. Your brother didn't make it."

I nodded. My hands stayed folded.

Phillip waited. When I didn't speak, he crouched down so we were eye level. "Is there someone I can call for you? Family? A friend?"

"No," I said. My voice sounded normal. That surprised me. "Thank you."

He hesitated, then stood. "There's a chapel on the second floor if you need some quiet. And the social worker can help with arrangements when you're ready."

"Okay."

He walked away. His shoes squeaked on the linoleum.

I sat there. The clock on the wall said 11:47 PM. Ramon had gone into surgery at 5:30. I'd been sitting in this chair for over six hours. My back hurt. I noticed that in a distant way, like it was happening to someone else.

The buzzing lights flickered once, then steadied.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. Zayn's name lit up the screen.

I answered. "Hello?"

"Gemma." His voice was clipped. Distracted. "I'm heading to Ashlyn's. She's having a difficult night and needs someone there."

I pressed my thumb against the inside of my left wrist. "Okay."

"I'll be back late. Don't wait up."

The line went dead.

I stared at the dark screen. He hadn't asked where I was. He hadn't asked about Ramon. He didn't know Ramon had been in surgery tonight. I'd stopped telling Zayn about hospital visits months ago because he never remembered anyway.

I put the phone back in my pocket.

The corridor was empty. A janitor pushed a cart past at the far end, wheels rattling. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air. It was the same smell as every other night I'd spent here. There had been so many nights.

I reached into my bag. My fingers found the folded papers I'd been carrying for three weeks. I pulled them out and smoothed them flat on my lap.

Divorce papers. My lawyer had prepared them after I'd finally called. I'd signed my parts already. Only Zayn's signature was missing, but I didn't need it. New York allowed no-fault divorce. I could file alone.

I'd been carrying them, waiting for the right moment. Waiting for some clear sign that it was time.

I looked down at the papers. Then I looked up at the empty corridor, at the flickering lights, at the clock that now said 11:52.

Ramon was gone. The only reason I'd stayed was gone.

I pulled a pen from my bag and signed the final section—the part that confirmed I was filing. My handwriting looked steady. I folded the papers back up and tucked them into my bag.

I didn't cry. There was nothing left to cry with.

I stood. My legs were stiff. I walked to the elevator and rode down to the main floor. The lobby was nearly empty. A security guard nodded at me. I nodded back.

Outside, the November air bit at my face. I pulled my coat tighter and walked to the parking garage. My car was on the third level. I got in, started the engine, and sat there while it warmed up.

The Reynolds penthouse was twenty minutes away in Midtown. I drove there on autopilot, parked in the underground garage, and took the private elevator up.

The apartment was dark. Zayn's shoes weren't by the door. His jacket wasn't on the chair. He was still at Ashlyn's.

I walked to the bedroom and pulled a suitcase from the closet. I packed quickly. Clothes. Toiletries. The photo of Ramon and me from when I was twelve. Nothing else.

I left every piece of jewelry on the dresser. The diamond necklace Zayn had given me on our first anniversary. The earrings from our second. The bracelet from our third. I didn't want any of it.

I zipped the suitcase and carried it to the door. I looked back once at the apartment. Seven years. This place had never felt like home.

I turned off the lights and left.

The elevator descended in silence. I walked through the lobby, nodded at the night doorman, and stepped out onto the street.

The Manhattan night was cold and bright. I put my suitcase in the trunk and got in the car.

I drove away without looking back.