She Turned My Love Diary Into a Joke, So I Left Our Marriage

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The day tickets went on sale for the singer we'd both loved for ten years, neither my wife nor I managed to grab one.

The next day Margery's mother showed up with groceries. "Oh, come on, if you couldn't get tickets, then just don't go."

"Rodney Swanson just got out of the hospital after that car accident, and he's still fussing around. He's already burned through most of what we had, and he still won't sit still."

I said nothing.

But I'd had that accident because my wife hated me being home so much and pushed me out to deliver food in the pouring rain, and that was how I broke my leg.

The concert crept closer, day by day.

I wanted to give my ten years of youth some kind of closing, and I couldn't stop myself. I quietly bought a scalped ticket and went.

But at the entrance, the first thing I saw was my best friend helping my wife with her hair and makeup.

He asked, joking, "Margie, if Rodney knew you came with me, he wouldn't get mad, would he?"

My wife shook her head, grinning. "Idiot. He'll never know."

"A concert like this doesn't come around often. I just want to sit next to the person I actually like."

"So Rodney broke a leg. He plays weak every single day, so how does he suddenly have the energy the second a concert comes up? I'm not about to indulge that nasty little habit of his."

I gripped the glow stick in my hand.

Sorry about the broken leg, really.

From now on, it won't happen again.

……

The lights dropped, leaving a single spotlight on the singer at center stage.

I'd already decided this concert would be my last goodbye to my younger years.

The opening song began.

I stood in a corner of the stands, holding the cheap glow stick a scalper had shoved into my hands on the way in.

The venue was too big. Even inside the same space, I still felt so far from the person on that stage.

The scalper had only gotten me a standing ticket, and the longer I stood, the more my leg ached, until the pain went almost numb.

Cold sweat ran down me, and in a daze I got through two hours.

Then came the song-request segment.

On the big screen, the camera started scrolling at random across the crowd.

"Stop!" the singer called out.

The frame froze.

On the big screen were the faces of my best friend, Emmet Hudson, and my wife, Margery Jenner.

Her hairband sparkled, her makeup delicate and cute, her expression all surprise and delight.

Emmet had an arm around her shoulders and waved at the camera.

The singer smiled and asked, "Pretty lady, here at the concert with your boyfriend? What would you like to hear?"

Margery took the mic. She didn't correct anyone that Emmet wasn't her boyfriend.

She spoke softly.

"I'd like to request 'Favor' for the boy I love most."

"He's been with me through so many hard days. Tonight I want to tell him he's the person I love most."

It's my favorite song.

Back in college, every time we went to karaoke, Margery would sing it.

Emmet and I would listen quietly beside her.

Back then it never once occurred to me that the song might not have been sung for me at all.

And here I was, sitting in a corner, watching the two of them lean into each other on the big screen.

My stomach heaved harder.

I stood and walked out of the venue, almost like I was fleeing.

When I got home, there was a bag of food delivery sitting outside the door.

Margery had messaged me: 【*Honey, I'm still away on my business trip. I ordered you some chicken soup, remember to drink it.*】

She'd also sent a photo, a small hotel table.

On it were spicy beef stew, spicy fried chicken, and crawfish.

She was careful about it. The dishes were all arranged close to her, and there was only one pair of chopsticks.

Staging the illusion that she was eating alone.

But she'd forgotten that I knew she didn't eat spicy food.

These were all Emmet's tastes.

I opened the delivery bag she'd ordered for me.

The plastic bag had "homemade chicken soup" printed on it in crude red letters, and the receipt showed three dollars and twenty cents paid.

The so-called homemade chicken soup was nothing but water mixed with bouillon powder, two leaves of vegetable floating on top.

Real effort on her part, too, digging up a place in a major city that could deliver for three-twenty.

I set the food down, opened my messages, and tapped into Margery's profile.

A single flat line.

I tapped into Emmet's profile. Another flat line.

They'd blocked me at the same time.

I closed the app and opened my video feed.

The very first clip was one Emmet had posted.

The footage was exactly that moment broadcast on the concert's big screen.

The caption read: 【*Favored by the person I love most, hahaha so happy*】

The location tag was a five-star hotel next to the venue.

The comments were all their friends:

【*Oh my god, that's so romantic!*】

【*Margery and Emmet really suit each other.*】

【*And that broke loser Rodney thinks he deserves to be at a concert too, tagging along like the hick he is.*】

A wave of nausea hit me. I rushed into the bathroom and hunched over the toilet, dry-heaving.

I lifted my head and looked at myself in the mirror.

Sallow face, stubble everywhere.

Because my leg hadn't fully healed, my shoulders slumped and I couldn't stand up straight.

To save for the big place she was always dreaming about, I hadn't dared buy myself so much as a bottle of beer, and I cut my own hair in front of the mirror.

Working days, delivering food at night.

Whenever Margery's mother came over, it was always the same few lines: "A man should make more money while he's young. He can't shortchange our Margery."

But Margery would push back at her mother, saying my work wasn't easy.

I never could have imagined she'd treat me like this behind my back.

I took a deep breath and opened the calendar on my phone.

I'd planned to go to the sales office tomorrow to sign the contract, as a surprise for her.

I opened the chat with the real estate agent: 【*That house. Put it in my name only.*】