Now he hadn't even broken the seal on the box. He'd just grabbed it to play the generous benefactor with someone else's gift.
"That's your medicine," I said quietly, not reaching to take it back.
"My stomach hasn't been bothering me much lately."
"She's delicate. Girls can't handle pain like that."
Timothy spun the steering wheel as he spoke, utterly unbothered.
I pulled my gaze back and watched the streetlights slide past the window.
I said nothing more.
I just put the box back in the storage compartment.
Back home, Timothy went straight to the bathroom to shower.
I walked into the bedroom, opened the closet, and started packing.
The down payment on this apartment had been Timothy's. The mortgage we paid together.
In the most prominent spot in the closet hung a bright-yellow couture dress.
He'd brought it back from a business trip last month.
"I passed a window display and thought it would look perfect on you, so I bought it."
I'd never worn it.
I don't wear bright yellow. Sheila does.
And the dress was a size small.
I'm a medium.
I took the dress down, folded it carefully, and set it on Timothy's pillow.
Then I pulled out my own clothes, a few gray and black pieces, and dropped them into the suitcase.
The water shut off in the bathroom.
Timothy came out, towel-drying his hair.
When he saw the dress on the bed and the half-open suitcase on the floor, he stopped short.
"What are you fussing with in the middle of the night?"
"This isn't my size."
I didn't look up. I kept folding.
Timothy crossed the room and clamped a hand over mine.
There was an edge of irritation in his voice.
"What is wrong with you today? You've had that face on since we left the karaoke bar."
"Do I really have to spell out every word from that stupid game for you?"
"Sheila just broke up with her boyfriend. She's a wreck. So I look out for an old classmate a little. What's the problem?"
"Do you have to blow it so out of proportion, packing a suitcase and throwing a fit over nothing?"
Just then, his phone buzzed on the table.
The screen lit up. Sheila had sent a long voice message.
Timothy didn't bother to hide it from me. He played it right there.
"Timothy, are you home yet?"
"I'm all alone here and I'm a little scared. I think someone was knocking just now..."
Her voice carried an unmistakable sob, pitiful and helpless.
Timothy's brows snapped together at once.
He didn't even dry his hair. He grabbed the car keys off the entry table.
"It's not safe for Sheila to be alone. I'm going to check on her."
At the door, he paused and glanced back at me.
"There's that date porridge you made yesterday in the pot. Heat it up for me. My stomach's a little off. I'll eat when I get back."
Bang.
The door shut.
I stood there a long time, staring at that locked security door.
The old me would have stopped him.
What kind of man goes to a single woman's place in the dead of night.
But tonight I didn't.
I walked calmly to the kitchen and lifted the lid off the clay pot.
He'd complained about his stomach yesterday, so I'd simmered date and millet porridge for three hours.
I picked up the pot and poured every drop down the drain.
Since he'd given away his stomach medicine, he didn't need my porridge either.
I'd been on leave these past few days, resting.
The D&C had taken a toll on me, and the doctor told me to recover quietly.
But I'd just replied to the new company and set my start date for Monday.
Which meant I had only three days to move out.
The next morning.
Timothy never came home.
I got up early and went down to the property management office.
To file the waiver transferring the parking spot out of my name.
