He Gave Her Cash, I Gave Her a Ring

“You wired half of our ten years' savings to that intern.”

I tossed the transfer screenshot onto the dining table.

He froze, then smiled. “Don't read into it. Something came up with her family. I just helped her out for a bit.”

“You helped her out. With our money.”

He didn't answer, just bent his head over his rice.

It struck me as ridiculous.

Ten years, and he'd never once brought up “when are we getting married,” yet helping someone else out came so easily to him.

“Let's break up.”

His chopsticks paused. He looked up at me. “Is it really worth all that?”

I didn't explain.

Three days later, I posted to my feed: a close-up of one of my hands, a diamond ring now on the ring finger.

The caption was one word: “Done.”

Amos Henson sent thirteen messages in a row. The last one was…

“Whose ring is that?”

I didn't reply.

Some men, you stay with for ten years and they never feel any rush.

The moment you're with someone else, they panic.

Too bad. Too late.

…

He set down his chopsticks and stared at me for two seconds.

“I want that money back next month.”

I didn't move.

“Fine.”

He frowned, probably not expecting me to agree so easily.

He picked his bowl back up, put a piece of pork rib in his mouth, and chewed.

“Her mom's in the hospital. She needed cash fast. Just three days.”

I picked the transfer screenshot up off the table, folded it twice, and tucked it into my pocket.

“I threw out that gray sweater of yours. It pilled too badly.”

His chopsticks stopped.

“That one cost over a thousand.”

“I know.”

He looked at me, cheeks still puffed out, the half-chewed rib seemingly stuck and impossible to swallow.

After a while, he took a sip of water.

“What exactly are you trying to say?”

I pulled out my chair, stood, and took his bowl away.

“We're breaking up.”

He sat there without moving, chopsticks still pinched between his fingers.

“You're serious?”

I didn't answer. I turned on the faucet and rinsed the bowl.

The water was loud. I didn't catch whatever he said after that.

He came over and turned it off.

“I'm asking you. Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Over a few thousand dollars?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

He froze, his lips moving twice.

“I can get that money back.”

“Don't bother.”

“What did you say?”

I dried my hands and draped the rag over the faucet.

“I don't want the money. Call it a dowry for your intern.”

His face went white.

“Watch your mouth.”

“Sure.”

I turned and went back to the bedroom, opened the closet, and started gathering my things.

He followed me in, leaned against the door frame, both hands in his pockets.

“Can you just calm down?”

I ignored him, folded two pieces of clothing, and stuffed them into the bag.

He walked over and pressed his hand down on my suitcase.

“There's really nothing between her and me.”

I lifted my head and looked at him.

“How many times did you have dinner with her last month?”

His eyes flickered.

“Having dinner for work is completely normal.”

“That photo she sent you, was that on your birthday?”

He let go of the suitcase and stepped back.

“What photo?”

“Your birthday. You told me you were working late. She posted to her feed, the photo was you, and the caption said, ‘Thanks for the cake, big brother.'”

He opened his mouth.

“That was her birthday, not mine.”

“Oh. So on your birthday, who'd you spend it with?”

He went silent.

I zipped the suitcase shut.

“You've been checking up on me?”

“No. It just came up in my feed. Small world.”

He leaned back against the door frame and stared down at the floor.