For the past few days, I had been busy packing my things.
Sealing boxes. Shipping them one after another back to Chicago.
Dante helped me tape the boxes shut himself.
“You’re only going back to Chicago for ten days. Why are you sending so much stuff?”
“My father bought a new house. I want to bring a few extra things.”
That was the excuse I gave him.
Dante only nodded after hearing it.
“Tell the staff to plant more ginkgo trees in the yard.”
“You like them.”
Every year, I used to make him take me to that row of ginkgo trees.
And all this time, he thought I loved the trees themselves.
It never even crossed his mind what that proposal meant to me.
“No need.”
He paused what he was doing and looked at me.
“I like sycamore trees now.”
He let out a quiet laugh and nodded.
I smiled back at him.
So this whole time, Dante never argued with me not because he spoiled me.
He simply never took any of it seriously.
A while later, he finally seemed to notice something.
“Why are all the boxes yours?”
“You’re not making space for me there?”
I had already prepared an answer.
“Not yet.”
“My dad’s blood pressure has been bad lately. Let’s wait a little longer before telling him you’ll be staying there too.”
Dante narrowed his eyes and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind.
“You’re not demanding I go back to Chicago to meet your father anymore?”
I pretended to reach for something and slipped away from him.
“I don’t feel like watching the two of you point guns at each other.”
He laughed softly.
“He’d never kill me.”
Then he added,
“Whenever you want to tell him, I’ll go along with it.”
That afternoon, I drove out to buy a few things.
At a red light, I looked over and saw Dante driving with Camille in the passenger seat.
My mind blanked for a second.
I missed the brake and slammed into the car in front of me.
A long cut split across my left arm instantly.
When I looked back again, Dante was still turned toward Camille, saying something to her.
I had rarely seen him smile that easily.
And suddenly, I realized something.
It wasn’t that Dante didn’t know how to smile.
Their car drove away.
I called 911 by myself.
At the hospital, I gritted my teeth through everything.
I called him over a dozen times.
He never answered once.
While I awkwardly paid bills, went through examinations, and got my wound treated, a nurse walked over and asked,
“Your husband still hasn’t come?”
I pulled the bank card from between my teeth.
“I’m already divorced.”
Three days later, Dante finally showed up.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I wanted to say something.
Then I thought about the two of them in the car.
And the dozens of unanswered calls.
So what came out instead was,
“I know you’re busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”
Dante immediately looked serious.
“Camille’s husband was difficult to deal with this time. It took more effort than usual.”
“So… is it done now?”
He answered lightly,
“It’s handled.”
I nodded softly.
I used to love seeing him like this.
Calm. Powerful. Capable of solving anything.
Now when I looked at him, I only found it ridiculous.
Camille called again.
And once again, Dante left.
I sat alone on the hospital bed and let out a dry laugh.
“That’s good.”
“At least you won’t have to run between both sides anymore.”
An old childhood friend from Chicago called me and asked when I’d be arriving.
“Two more days.”
“Then I’ll finally be free.”
“Yeah. He already signed the divorce papers.”
The hospital room door was suddenly shoved open.
Dante rushed inside.
He stared at me.
“Who’s getting divorced?”
