1: 1
When Maxwell Dickerson proposed, he swore he would give me a fresh rose every single day.
It was supposed to mean his love for me would never wither.
He kept it up for 365 days.
On day 366, a plastic fake suddenly appeared in the vase.
I took a picture and sent it to him.
He didn't reply until eleven that night:
"Business dinner tonight, no time to hit the flower shop. The plastic one'll do for now, looks the same anyway."
I turned and looked at the lifeless little ornament sitting in the vase.
I knew it wasn't the flower he was willing to settle for.
But me, I've never been the settling type.
1
I sat on the couch and waited a long time.
At one in the morning, the lock clicked.
Maxwell came in reeking of alcohol, walked straight toward the bathroom without even taking off his shoes, and tossed out a single line:
"Grab me a set of pajamas."
I set down the medical report in my hands and got up to fetch his clothes from the bedroom.
As I passed the coffee table, his phone screen lit up.
A message from his childhood friend:
"Damn, Max, what were you even saying? You actually that drunk? Delete the messages when you get home, don't let your wife see."
I picked up the phone and unlocked it.
The chat was wiped clean, except for three messages Maxwell had sent five minutes ago:
"So sick of it. Come home every day and she's nagging in my ear like some old nanny. If I didn't live out here she'd be checking up on me. Honestly I don't even want to come home."
"I only married her because she was simple, and she could put money into my startup."
"Real talk, I can't even stand looking at her face anymore. Ruby's the only one who gets me."
I crouched by the coffee table and stared at the screen for a long time.
Three messages, like three slaps, left my ears ringing.
Four years dating, one year married.
I'd pinched every penny, quit my job at a multinational to be his unpaid support staff, and sunk my entire twenty-thousand-dollar dowry into his studio.
But in his eyes I was just a gullible sucker who was easy to control and good for money.
The water in the bathroom shut off.
Maxwell came out wrapped in a towel.
The second he saw me crouched on the floor with his phone, his face changed.
"You went through my phone?"
He rushed over, snatched it away, and swiped at the screen twice.
I looked up at him.
"Those three messages, were they from you?"
"Dave Renner grabbed my phone and sent that garbage. It was just messing around at the table, and you believe it?"
He shoved the phone into his pocket, his voice openly impatient.
Dave was his childhood friend.
Every time he said the wrong thing or screwed something up, Dave was always the one who took the fall.
Today, all of a sudden, I didn't want to believe it anymore.
I stood, handed him the pajamas, and spoke evenly:
"Those messages were sent five minutes ago. Your drive home takes at least twenty."
His brow knotted tighter.
"So? What are you trying to say?"
"Dave dropped me off. And he's the one who sent those from my phone. We had a bet on whether you cared about me, whether you'd check my phone after seeing his message."
"Clearly, I won."
I let out a soft laugh.
"Oh. Got it."
He probably hadn't expected me to be so easy to brush off.
He blanked for a second, then put that condescending look back on his face.
"Fine, stop overthinking. I'm tired. I'll sleep in the guest room tonight so I don't wake you up getting water."
He turned to go.
I stood there, watching his back.
On the coffee table, the wind flipped a page of the medical report.
Breast nodule.
The doctor said it was highly suspected to be malignant and recommended I be admitted for a biopsy as soon as possible.
The next morning, I didn't make breakfast.
When Maxwell got up, I was sitting at the dining table.
In front of me were my bank cards and a stack of transfer receipts.
He frowned as he pulled on his jacket.
"Why's there no food today? I've got a client meeting this morning."
"Maxwell, we need to talk."
"Whatever it is, tell me tonight. I'm in a hurry."
"That plastic flower will last at least a week. I've been busy lately, so I'm not going to the flower shop. Just make do with it."
He grabbed his keys, ready to leave.
"Let's talk about a divorce."
