Chapter 2
Zoe
I am not surprised when I wake up on the carpet beside the bed and find the mattress empty. A hollow laugh escapes my lips as I look down at the plush fabric beneath me, stretching out past my legs. I stand up slowly, feeling numb to the emotions hovering around me and within me.
I make my way into the bathroom, my limbs threatening to give out with every single step.
Standing before the vanity, I begin to remove my makeup.
I shake my head at the swollen face and bloodshot eyes staring back at me—a stark contrast to the woman who gushed at her reflection in the elevator hours ago.
I wipe the cotton pad, sprinkled with makeup remover, harshly across my skin.
Stepping into the shower, I let the water hit me, falling into the dull action of washing my body. I stand still under the stream as memories of the past flood my mind.
I remember the deafening sound of silence on the day they laid Julian Walters, Sarai’s husband, to rest. I remember the dark gloominess on my husband's face.
I remember the way Sarai broke down, crying as she fell into my arms. We were close back then.
That is why when Chris came to me later and said, "I’ll take care of her for the time being, I'll be the shoulder she can lean on," I nodded, supporting him without a single shred of hesitation.
That is why when we eventually both put to bed—I with Nate and she with Julius—and Chris went into the theater room with her instead of showing up for me, I still took it as nothing. Now Nate and Julius are both seven years old, and the sequence of things remains exactly the same.
I took all of this lying low because I felt the basic compassion of a human being.
The wound was still fresh for the family.
But five years ago, I noticed the pattern.
Each year on our anniversary, she falls ill, or she needs something urgent.
Each time I text or call him, he loses track of time.
Then it trickled down to him almost never being at home.
It has been almost eight years since we lost Julian. Am I such a wicked woman to want my husband back? To want to stop sharing the man who holds my heart? A quiet thought chimes in with the answer: I guess in this case, I am. I turn off the shower and step out to dry my body.
***
I walk into the kitchen downstairs, only to see my husband gently patting a sleeping Sarai on the couch.
I keep my mouth shut, walking right past them to get the food that has already been laid out for me on the dining table.
In the quietness of the room, I eat my meal while he continues to pat her back. She is in a deep sleep.
I look over at them as I put a spoonful of rice into my mouth, a bitter smile gracing my lips. How peaceful they look. Like a couple in total bliss, while I wait it out like an outsider in the background.
When my plate is almost halfway done, Chris croaks out, "Baby."
I look up at him. His eyes are squinting against the light.
He carefully lifts the lady laying on him, preparing to stand, when Sarai makes a low sound.
Her face contorts as though she is trapped in a bad dream.
Once upon a time, I might have believed he would just pat her a bit, then walk toward me to solve whatever issue we had.
But that belongs to once upon a time. I turn back to my meal and continue eating until I am done.
"It's okay," he coos, tapping her shoulder gently.
Before I stand to leave the dining area, I look at them one more time, only to find that he is staring right at me. I do not have the strength in me for an argument. I find my way back upstairs, turning off the lights as the exhaustion whispers sweet words to my body, pulling me under.
***
The next time I wake up, I feel his warmth beside me. His nose is sniffing at my neck, his hands holding my waist tightly. This used to be the only thing that made me believe a part of the husband who loved me was still here. Just this.
But it is funny how, at this point, I do not crave the feel of his touch.
I reach down, unclasping his hands from around my waist. He stirs in his sleep, but I push his fingers away regardless and walk out of the room.
I commence the tiring tour of heading back down to the kitchen via the elevator.
I just need a glass of water, since the kitchenette upstairs has been out of function for a while.
I step into the kitchen, only to see a matted mane of blonde hair facing away from me. Sarai is in the room too. I take a deep breath. The air feels awkward the closer I walk. I open the freezer and take out a jar of water, and that is when she speaks.
"Are you in any way angry with me?"
I turn to look at her as I pour the water into my cup. Once the glass is full, I set the jar on the counter, resting both of my palms against the marble. I look at Sarai, who leans her waist against the counter opposite me, sipping wine as though it is juice.
"What do you think, Sarai?"
She turns to face me, a tiny smile appearing on her lips as she begins. "I'm sorry for not telling him about your anniversary. I just wanted to spend more time with him. I've missed him. And I think he's starting to replace my husband in my heart."
That part does not surprise me. It merely confirms the uneasy feeling I have been harboring for a while—the way I catch her staring at him, the way she smiles the moment he begins to speak.
"I just want to see him every day," she continues, shaking her head. "And you know we are bound by the trauma that happened in the past. Please understand."
I scoff aloud. "You more than like my husband, don't you?"
Sarai looks at me, her eyes widening comically as she drops her jaw. She brings her hand up to her mouth, fingers splayed over her lips in a theatrical gasp. The exaggerated movement oozes a subtle, sharp mockery, a performative display of innocence that makes the space between us turn cold.
"How did you find out?"
"By asking you right now."
She nods slowly, dropping the hand from her face. "Yes, I do like him."
I nod back. "And you have the guts to tell me to what?
Understand?" A rough laugh escapes my throat.
"Really, Sarai? I should understand you monopolizing my husband for the past how many years?
Let's just say five. The first two, I understood.
Sarai, you have to understand me. Realize that I want some time with Chris.
Our marriage is falling apart because he's never here.
He doesn't remember anything about me, about us. "
She nods her head as though she is listening, her gaze drifting toward the glass in her hand, then proceeds to speak. "You can divorce him, you know, since it is causing you this much stress."
I stand completely still, my fingers merely loosening their grip on the water glass.
A year ago, a statement like that would have sent a hot fury racing through my veins, tightening my jaw until my teeth ached.
My palms would have balled into fists, and the heat of anger would have demanded a scream.
Now, looking at her, my pulse remains entirely flat.
My shoulders don't tense. My breathing doesn't change.
The numbness has settled too deep, turning the old rage into heavy, hollow indifference. I simply do not care anymore.
"Okay."
I place the jug back into the freezer, turn around, and go straight back upstairs to sleep.
***
On waking up in the morning, I notice that he is already out of bed and nowhere in the room. I go about my morning business of freshening up. Once I am finished, I dress exactly the way I normally would for breakfast.
The moment I walk down to the dining room, every single eye turns to look at me.
Chris's mother, Greta, is already seated at the head of the table.
I pause at the threshold, meeting the wall of stares thrown my way all at once.
Taking a deep breath, I steel myself against the dread of whatever commotion is coming next, and I take my seat at the table.