Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
"Jesus, Dahlia. I thought you were coming home tomorrow,” he sputters as he pushes his hair out of his eyes.
And there it is. My failure to understand dates and times serendipitously saved me.
"Yeah, that pesky international date line is totally to blame for you putting your dick in someone else's mouth. Did you trip over it and fall?”
My eyes drift to the younger woman, and I snort. "Really, Ben? Is she your TA or your student? Could you be any more cliché? Get the fuck out, you worthless piece of shit."
"I'm not leaving. This is my house, too," he snaps.
I whip my phone off the counter where I’d left it and snap a picture of them. "Ben, I just flew halfway around the world. I am one second away from sending this to the dean and destroying you. Get. The. Fuck. Out."
He steps out, grabbing his robe off the back of the door and jerking it on. The younger woman, who looks vaguely familiar, whips her head back and forth between us like an obscene tennis match.
"You, too,” I tell her. “Get the fuck out of my house. You think he's not going to cheat on you, sweetheart? I got news for you. Cheaters cheat.”
She shrinks back, covering herself in embarrassment and reaches for a towel.
I throw out a hand over them and say, "Oh, no. You can drip your shame right out the front door for all I care. Don’t you dare touch my towels. Get. Out."
Am I being cruel? Maybe. But I have no fucks left to give.
As she runs from the bathroom, I step down and turn the water off with enough force I’m surprised the knob doesn’t break off in my hand. I stand there, fuming, until I hear the door slam and the screech of tires as they speed away in Ben’s sports car.
I should have known he wanted to impress other women when he talked me into that expensive thing, while I continued to drive my old, faithful, beat-up sedan. He always had a way of making me side with him. Even when I should have known better.
I walk to the hall bath. There is no way in hell I’m using the one they just violated.
Yanking off the robe that was a gift from Ben, I stuff it into the small trash can and crank the water as hot as I can stand it.
I step in and sink to the floor of the tub, the raw, boiling anger giving way to devastation.
I wrap my arms around my knees in a futile attempt to contain my hemorrhaging heart, and rock myself beneath the spray. I thought I would be coming home to safety, to reassurance. That Ben would help me figure out my next steps.
Hope swirls down the drain.
Without him, I don’t know how I’m going to continue my research, or even finish my degree, with both of us in the same damn department. If the world of botany is small, ethnobotany is a microcosm within it.
Sure, I have a picture that might be enough to get him in trouble. But in the male-dominated world of academia, all it would probably earn him is a slap on the wrist with a sly wink and a quiet warning to be more discreet next time.
But even worse, I still haven’t found the plant.
The doctorate was part of it, yes, but the real reason was something far more personal.
Ben knew I believed that the enzymes in the Silene vitalis held potential for treating the disease that killed my mother.
What he didn’t know, what I had never told him, was that I have the same gene. I could barely even admit it to myself.
I sit in the shower until the water runs cold, chasing me out, and go in search of a drink. I’ll allow myself one night for an epic pity party where I can ugly cry until I’m empty, and then tomorrow I’ll figure out a path forward. Alone. I can do this—I must do this— with or without him.
I reach for my favorite robe, but when I see it stuffed in the trash, the tears return with a vengeance. Breaking my own rule, I use the fancy decorative guest towels and then trudge to my room to find the most comfortable sweats I own.
When I open my drawer, I freeze, finding the pictures Ben must have hidden away there. I pull out all the frames that had once lined our dresser—snapshots of us frozen in time. I flip through them one by one, and a pattern emerges that I hadn’t noticed before tonight.
Every photo highlights him. His achievements. His awards. His work. Always him. In each one, I’m there, yes, but I’m not looking at the camera. I’m looking at him, adoringly. As if I existed only in relation to his light, a supporting player in my own life.
I had continually helped him move forward, prioritized his success over mine. His research and doctorate. Then, his appointment as a professor. Hell, even our engagement and wedding date had been scheduled to accommodate his academic calendar. Not my timeline. I would’ve married him years ago.
I flip to the last photo, our engagement party, and there she is.
The girl from the bathroom stands at the edge of the group that surrounds us.
Everyone else is smiling, cheering. But not her.
Her lips are pressed into a hard line, her hands clenched into fists at her side.
I never would’ve noticed it before. But now that I’ve seen it, it’s so damn obvious.
She’s been there all along in the sidewings.
I thought Ben and I were equally devoted not just to each other, but also to our work and shared future. But now I see the truth: it was painfully one-sided.
I pull on my favorite sweats, then gather the pictures to my chest, and storm outside to the backyard. The fire pit is still loaded with the wood we never had the chance to use. With a grim little smile, I dump them on top and head into the garage, grab a lighter, and the gas can from the mower.
Returning like a woman on a mission, I pour a heavy dose of accelerant onto the sad pile. I pick up one picture and light the edge. Orange flames lick their way up the cardboard and I toss it in. A satisfying whoosh rises from the pit, a plume of heat and fury, and I let out a victorious whoop.
"Yeah! Take that, fucker!" I shout into the night.
Now that I’ve had a taste, I want more.
Marching through the house, I dump out a laundry basket onto the floor and start filling it with Ben’s things. His favorite hat. His entire underwear drawer. The photo albums I had lovingly made of our years together. His precious collection of journals he’d been published in.
Passing through the kitchen, I toss a bag of chips on top, a tub of ice cream with a spoon, and the bottle of expensive tequila he’d been saving for a “special occasion.” After all, I think this qualifies.
Back outside, I flop into one of the Adirondack chairs Ben insisted we buy last summer because they looked good.
I try to get comfortable in it, but I’ve always hated them.
I wrestle my way out, turn around, and hurl the damn thing across the lawn.
It doesn’t go far, but the crack of wood splitting as it lands is deeply satisfying.
I fetch a folding chair from the garage, wrap myself in a blanket, and settle in beside the fire.
As the flames start to die back down, I feed them piece by piece—his journals, his underwear, and the photo albums. As the pieces of my life burn to ash, I work my way through the ice cream, the chips, and the booze, drinking straight from the bottle.
“Cheers, fucker,” I mutter, raising it in a mock toast.
Despite my best efforts, nothing fills the aching hollowness his betrayal has left inside me. The throbbing emptiness spills over, carving hot, salty tracks down my cheeks. I toss his final pair of underwear into the fire, surprised to find the basket as empty as the bottle of tequila.
Pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders, I let my fuzzy gaze drift to the edge of the woods. Even though I’m half a world away, I find myself scanning for those silver eyes again. Their absence triggers an ache within me—irrational, impossible, and yet so visceral.
A desperate, relentless need to see them again curls in my gut, even in this drunken, grief-slicked haze. There is nothing left for me here. The life I built is gone. And if I don’t find that plant, things will only get worse.
The solution floats to me like a whisper on the crackle of the fire. With a slurred giggle and a hiccup, I pick up my phone and finally start making decisions for me.