A class reunion. A dozen of us crammed into a karaoke booth, the liquor warming everyone's blood, and somebody started pushing a game called the "Worst Cheater Challenge."
The rules: take turns playing the "ultimate trash ex," and invent the most despicable thing you'd ever done to a partner.
The more believable, the better. Loser picked up the tab.
Timothy Fox pulled me close as he stood, a careless, wicked grin spreading across his face. "All right, let me go hard."
"The day her grandmother passed, it wasn't that I couldn't get a train ticket. It was Sheila Winfield's birthday. She said I was the only one who remembered. I hesitated, and then I never went to the station."
The whole table howled, slapping the wood, telling him he was a natural.
"That twenty-five hundred she wired me every month for living expenses? Fifteen hundred of it went to covering Sheila's rent. I told her prices had gone up." Someone whistled. "Brutal! Oscar-worthy!"
He tacked on another line, light as air. "Last month, when she had her D&C, it wasn't a delayed flight. Sheila failed her road test for her driver's license and called me crying, begging me to come pick her up."
The table exploded, laughing that he'd fabricated himself right past every line just to win.
The karaoke lights flickered bright and dim, and no one noticed I was digging my nails into my own palm.
Because one month ago, I really did have a D&C.
It turned out every word of his "trash-talk performance" was true.
I took out my phone, pulled up the out-of-town offer I'd agonized over for so long, and pressed confirm.
——
The party broke up, and everyone filed out of the karaoke place one by one.
The December night wind was brutal.
Sheila had worn a thin little slip dress, and she was shivering from the cold.
Timothy slipped off his suit jacket, so naturally, and draped it over her shoulders.
"Wind's strong tonight. Don't catch a chill."
Sheila flushed and thanked him.
I was only wearing a thin blouse myself.
Because before we left, Timothy had said the car had heat, so I shouldn't bundle up.
Now all I could do was hug my own arms.
Because I'd just had the D&C a month ago, and my body still hadn't recovered.
One gust of wind, and a dull ache spread low across my belly.
When we reached the parking lot, I reached for the passenger door out of habit.
The seat had been adjusted again.
Pulled forward, reclined at an angle.
Without a word, I reached out to fix it.
Timothy started the car, caught my movement in his peripheral vision, and frowned.
"Don't take what I said in that game to heart."
"Everyone was riding the high. If I didn't make it sound vicious, they wouldn't have bought it."
I said nothing.
Whether it was made up or not, we both knew the truth.
Last month I lay on the operating table, cold sweat breaking out from the pain.
The nurse held my phone, telling me to call a family member to sign the consent forms.
I called Timothy.
The instant the call connected, the background noise was the loudspeaker of a driving-test center.
Timothy lowered his voice and said, "The flight's delayed, I'm still at the gate, the signal's bad."
Then he hung up.
Over the past month, I'd wanted to ask him about it a thousand times.
But in the end, I didn't even have the strength left to ask.
The car stopped at a red light.
Timothy fished an imported box of stomach medication from the door compartment and handed it to me.
"Sheila had something cold tonight. Her stomach's bound to be off."
"You're going into the office tomorrow. Drop this off to her on your way."
Sheila and I worked in the same building.
I was on the top floor. She was on the third.
That box of stomach medication was something I'd had a friend personal-shop for me from Hong Kong and Macau last week.
Because Timothy was always getting blackout drunk to land clients, he'd developed a serious stomach condition.
This medicine worked well, but it was hard to find back home.
I went through three personal shoppers, called in a pile of favors, and waited half a month to get it.
