A flicker of pity was what made me hire Keith. It was also why I always made an extra meal at the shop.
He used to say that he would repay me one day.
But when he finally had the power to repay me, he was afraid I would actually ask for it.
My lips curled up into a bitter smile.
The snow kept falling harder. Just as I was about to freeze numb, the club doors swung open.
-
Keith walked out surrounded by a group of well-dressed rich kids. He wore a perfectly tailored designer suit, confident and radiant.
He looked nothing like the poor boy in a cramped rental, dressed in cheap clothes from a street stall.
"Keith, when are you finally dumping that old woman?"
"Yeah, don't you get nightmares staring at her face every night? How long are you planning to keep this act up?"
A flash of irritation crossed Keith's face. He waved them off impatiently.
"Drop it. Just thinking about her makes me smell that poor, old person stink all over again. If I wasn't worried she'd make a scene, I would've dumped her ages ago."
I stood not far away, my nails digging deep into my palm until it almost bled.
I wanted to rush over and demand an explanation.
I took two steps forward when a red Porsche pulled up in front of them. A young, beautiful girl stepped out and slipped her arm around Keith's.
The way he looked at her was filled with the same familiar tenderness and affection.
That look used to belong only to me.
She pouted, complaining that her hands were cold.
Keith immediately wrapped her hands in his and tucked them into his coat pocket, muttering, "Why are you dressed so little?"
She was wrapped in designer labels, smiling brightly. Standing next to each other, they looked perfect together.
Unlike me. I looked worn down and exhausted, with fine lines already etched at the corners of my eyes.
I felt like my heart had cracked open in the freezing wind.
He used to warm my hands like that, too, mumbling that I wasn't taking care of myself.
I remembered someone asking him in that post if he had ever loved his girlfriend.
He replied, [I did. Anyone would love someone they've spent eight years with.]
So when did he stop loving me?
The cold seeped all the way into my bones, and suddenly, I didn't want to confront him anymore.
But then, he saw me.
The tenderness on his face turned into shock, then irritation.
"Amanda? Why are you here? Were you following me? Why are you always so paranoid?"
I stared at him, stunned.
Paranoid.
That word was like a key, unlocking a flood of memories.
Three years ago, when I said I wanted to pick him up after work, he had snapped, "Can you stop hovering over me like a paranoid lunatic?"
When I noticed the expensive designer shoes on his feet and asked where they came from, when he stayed up late gaming with friends and jokingly called me an old hag and I confronted him, he said I was being unreasonable and paranoid.
So had he stopped loving me that early on?
He kept going, criticizing me nonstop, until he suddenly froze at the sight of tears on my cheeks.
I looked at him and asked slowly, "You paid off all your debts a long time ago, didn't you? You want to break up with me, don't you?"
He hesitated, eyes darting away, like the words were hard to say.
I let out a soft laugh and said it for him.
"I know you do. I saw your post."
As if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders, he let out a long breath.
"Yes. I want to break up."
He looked at me with a mix of relief and cruelty.
"Amanda, every day I spend with you is torture."
Torture.
Twenty-two-year-old Keith had once looked at me with love filling his eyes and said, "Amanda, every day with you is wonderful."
At thirty, he called it torture.
He pulled a black card from his wallet and handed it to me as if he were doing charity.
"There's a million dollars on this. Consider it compensation for all these years."
