Chapter Two Paul #3
I look at the ring in my hand, still warm from hers.
She never took it off. She would sometimes just look down at it when she thought I wasn't looking, smiling that beautiful little happy smile of hers.
I spent months designing it, making it perfect for her—her dream ring.
She had described it to me in detail when the word marriage started getting tossed around more and more.
I was so pleased with the result, and when I showed my mom, she cried happy tears, telling me that Sophie was going to love it.
She did. When I proposed on the beach, her beautiful face went from shocked to happy, then delighted. She didn't even look at the ring as I did my speech, she kept her eyes on me. Always on me. Only when I slid the ring on and promised forever did she look, and she squealed in surprise.
"Sophie, I… I'm so sorry," my voice cracks, "I love you. Always."
She nods without looking up. "God… I didn't even think you had the capacity to be this cruel."
I don't have a response worth listening to. Instead, I do what she asks of me. I text my mom to let her know I'm coming to stay for a while, then turn my phone off so I'm not distracted by the barrage of calls she'll send.
I walk into our bedroom, trying not to look at the bed and the mattress we picked out together. Sophie was like Goldilocks in the store—too soft, too firm, just right. I just stood there, amused as she lay on every single one to test it out and give it a grade.
The closet door sticks, and I yank it open to get my suitcase. It always sticks; we always said our forever home must have a huge walk-in closet with an actual door.
I don't fold my clothes; I shove them into my suitcase.
The last time I used this bag, we had come back from our trip to the Bahamas to celebrate our engagement.
We had a candlelight dinner on the beach and made love slowly to the sound of the ocean.
The memory hits me so hard I have to sit down on the edge of the bed to keep from falling over.
I try to breathe through this perpetual nausea.
From the living room comes a sound that tears me apart. Not crying exactly, not full sobbing. It breaks, stops, starts again, like she keeps remembering, and it keeps knocking her down.
Paul, you asshole. This is what you wanted, right?
I tuck my head between my knees, and my body shakes with sobs as memories rush over me.
◆◆◆
Our first night in this apartment, boxes everywhere, a pizza box open on the floor between us, our mattress tossed down without the frame because we were too tired from carrying the boxes up the stairs. Of course, the elevator was broken.
Sophie just laughed and said, "Well, at least I can skip leg day tomorrow," I laughed and kissed her right then and there. It was such a Sophie thing to say—to always look on the bright side.
"We should christen it," Sophie said, looking around our barren bedroom and wiggling her eyebrows at me.
I laughed. "Sweetie, we don't even have sheets."
My Sophie, problem solver extraordinaire, just grinned and grabbed one of her fluffy throw blankets. With a flair, she laid it on the bed and then stood with her hands on her hips. "Voila. Any other excuses?"
"My brilliant girl," I growled before tackling her onto the bed. It was clumsy and perfect, and we learned just how thin the walls were when the neighbors banged on our shared wall to shut us up. We both shushed our laughter with our hands over each other's mouths.
After we ate our cold slices sitting cross-legged, she pointed the crust at me and said, with the sweetest look on her face, "We're going to be so happy here, Paul. I feel it."
◆◆◆
And we were.
I can't stand to think of the memories anymore, so I get up and go to the dresser, yanking it open with more force than necessary. The dresser rattles against the wall, causing the Polaroid stuck onto the mirror to fall face-up, taunting me.
With a shaky hand, I pick it up. It's from a date night last year—Sophie with red lips in that red dress that made me insane, blowing a kiss. She'd done that final swipe of lipstick and then grabbed my tie to pull me to her.
"Smudge proof," she'd murmur against my mouth, smug when my lips came away clean. I'd pull her back in for another kiss, just to be sure. She was mine, and I was hers.
After a second of hesitation, I slide the photo into my pocket and feel like I've stolen something that doesn't belong to me anymore.
I finish packing quickly, because this apartment, this life, feels suffocating and I need to get out of here before I scream.
With one final look around the bedroom, logistics swirl around my brain: she can keep all the furniture, and I'll keep paying my half of the rent if she needs it. Thankfully, her job pays well enough and should cover the rent and then some, unless she needs to stop working during chemo...
Fuck.
"Asshole," I mutter to myself, grabbing my bags and turning the bedroom light off.
Sophie's curled on the far end of the couch when I walk into the living room, her orange knitted blanket pulled up to her chin. Her face is turned away from me, like the sight of me makes her sick.
"Sophie," my voice comes out gravelly. "Sophie, I'm—"
She finally turns toward me, and the look on her face makes me stumble. Her eyes are swollen, cheeks wet with tears, lip trembling, and something inside of me dies at the sight of it.
"I'm sorry," I say. It's so small compared to what I've done. "I am so—" I curl my hand into a fist, and my nails cut into my palm. It hurts, and it's what I deserve. "I don't have—there isn't an excuse."
She watches me like I’m a stranger. Part of me wants to go kneel by the couch and press my forehead to her knee, to apologize into the blanket until my throat is raw and she believes me. But I have enough sense to know that I've lost the right to touch her.
"I'll... email you about the apartment and bills. You can have the apartment, obviously. I'll call Pete about taking my name off... I'll make it all easy for you, I promise. If you need me to continue paying rent, I will..."
No response besides her jaw tightening and her eyes narrowing.
"I'll go," I say, because it's the one decent thing left. "I'm going. I just—" My throat closes, and I force the words out. "I'm sorry. More than you can know. I'm so sorry, Sophie."
She opens her mouth and guts me with one word.
"Noted."