A class reunion. A dozen of us crammed into a karaoke booth, the liquor warming everyone's blood, and somebody started pushing a game called the "Worst Cheater Challenge."

The rules: take turns playing the "ultimate trash ex," and invent the most despicable thing you'd ever done to a partner.

The more believable, the better. Loser picked up the tab.

Timothy Fox pulled me close as he stood, a careless, wicked grin spreading across his face. "All right, let me go hard."

"The day her grandmother passed, it wasn't that I couldn't get a train ticket. It was Sheila Winfield's birthday. She said I was the only one who remembered. I hesitated, and then I never went to the station."

The whole table howled, slapping the wood, telling him he was a natural.

"That twenty-five hundred she wired me every month for living expenses? Fifteen hundred of it went to covering Sheila's rent. I told her prices had gone up." Someone whistled. "Brutal! Oscar-worthy!"

He tacked on another line, light as air. "Last month, when she had her D&C, it wasn't a delayed flight. Sheila failed her road test for her driver's license and called me crying, begging me to come pick her up."

The table exploded, laughing that he'd fabricated himself right past every line just to win.

The karaoke lights flickered bright and dim, and no one noticed I was digging my nails into my own palm.

Because one month ago, I really did have a D&C.

It turned out every word of his "trash-talk performance" was true.

I took out my phone, pulled up the out-of-town offer I'd agonized over for so long, and pressed confirm.

——

The party broke up, and everyone filed out of the karaoke place one by one.

The December night wind was brutal.

Sheila had worn a thin little slip dress, and she was shivering from the cold.

Timothy slipped off his suit jacket, so naturally, and draped it over her shoulders.

"Wind's strong tonight. Don't catch a chill."

Sheila flushed and thanked him.

I was only wearing a thin blouse myself.

Because before we left, Timothy had said the car had heat, so I shouldn't bundle up.

Now all I could do was hug my own arms.

Because I'd just had the D&C a month ago, and my body still hadn't recovered.

One gust of wind, and a dull ache spread low across my belly.

When we reached the parking lot, I reached for the passenger door out of habit.

The seat had been adjusted again.

Pulled forward, reclined at an angle.

Without a word, I reached out to fix it.

Timothy started the car, caught my movement in his peripheral vision, and frowned.

"Don't take what I said in that game to heart."

"Everyone was riding the high. If I didn't make it sound vicious, they wouldn't have bought it."

I said nothing.

Whether it was made up or not, we both knew the truth.

Last month I lay on the operating table, cold sweat breaking out from the pain.

The nurse held my phone, telling me to call a family member to sign the consent forms.

I called Timothy.

The instant the call connected, the background noise was the loudspeaker of a driving-test center.

Timothy lowered his voice and said, "The flight's delayed, I'm still at the gate, the signal's bad."

Then he hung up.

Over the past month, I'd wanted to ask him about it a thousand times.

But in the end, I didn't even have the strength left to ask.

The car stopped at a red light.

Timothy fished an imported box of stomach medication from the door compartment and handed it to me.

"Sheila had something cold tonight. Her stomach's bound to be off."

"You're going into the office tomorrow. Drop this off to her on your way."

Sheila and I worked in the same building.

I was on the top floor. She was on the third.

That box of stomach medication was something I'd had a friend personal-shop for me from Hong Kong and Macau last week.

Because Timothy was always getting blackout drunk to land clients, he'd developed a serious stomach condition.

This medicine worked well, but it was hard to find back home.

I went through three personal shoppers, called in a pile of favors, and waited half a month to get it.

Now he hadn't even broken the seal on the box. He'd just grabbed it to play the generous benefactor with someone else's gift.

"That's your medicine," I said quietly, not reaching to take it back.

"My stomach hasn't been bothering me much lately."

"She's delicate. Girls can't handle pain like that."

Timothy spun the steering wheel as he spoke, utterly unbothered.

I pulled my gaze back and watched the streetlights slide past the window.

I said nothing more.

I just put the box back in the storage compartment.

Back home, Timothy went straight to the bathroom to shower.

I walked into the bedroom, opened the closet, and started packing.

The down payment on this apartment had been Timothy's. The mortgage we paid together.

In the most prominent spot in the closet hung a bright-yellow couture dress.

He'd brought it back from a business trip last month.

"I passed a window display and thought it would look perfect on you, so I bought it."

I'd never worn it.

I don't wear bright yellow. Sheila does.

And the dress was a size small.

I'm a medium.

I took the dress down, folded it carefully, and set it on Timothy's pillow.

Then I pulled out my own clothes, a few gray and black pieces, and dropped them into the suitcase.

The water shut off in the bathroom.

Timothy came out, towel-drying his hair.

When he saw the dress on the bed and the half-open suitcase on the floor, he stopped short.

"What are you fussing with in the middle of the night?"

"This isn't my size."

I didn't look up. I kept folding.

Timothy crossed the room and clamped a hand over mine.

There was an edge of irritation in his voice.

"What is wrong with you today? You've had that face on since we left the karaoke bar."

"Do I really have to spell out every word from that stupid game for you?"

"Sheila just broke up with her boyfriend. She's a wreck. So I look out for an old classmate a little. What's the problem?"

"Do you have to blow it so out of proportion, packing a suitcase and throwing a fit over nothing?"

Just then, his phone buzzed on the table.

The screen lit up. Sheila had sent a long voice message.

Timothy didn't bother to hide it from me. He played it right there.

"Timothy, are you home yet?"

"I'm all alone here and I'm a little scared. I think someone was knocking just now..."

Her voice carried an unmistakable sob, pitiful and helpless.

Timothy's brows snapped together at once.

He didn't even dry his hair. He grabbed the car keys off the entry table.

"It's not safe for Sheila to be alone. I'm going to check on her."

At the door, he paused and glanced back at me.

"There's that date porridge you made yesterday in the pot. Heat it up for me. My stomach's a little off. I'll eat when I get back."

Bang.

The door shut.

I stood there a long time, staring at that locked security door.

The old me would have stopped him.

What kind of man goes to a single woman's place in the dead of night.

But tonight I didn't.

I walked calmly to the kitchen and lifted the lid off the clay pot.

He'd complained about his stomach yesterday, so I'd simmered date and millet porridge for three hours.

I picked up the pot and poured every drop down the drain.

Since he'd given away his stomach medicine, he didn't need my porridge either.

I'd been on leave these past few days, resting.

The D&C had taken a toll on me, and the doctor told me to recover quietly.

But I'd just replied to the new company and set my start date for Monday.

Which meant I had only three days to move out.

The next morning.

Timothy never came home.

I got up early and went down to the property management office.

To file the waiver transferring the parking spot out of my name.

The parking space was something we'd bought together, but it was registered in my name. Since I was leaving, I wouldn't take a single thread that tied me to him.

After finishing the paperwork, I stopped at the bakery near the complex gates and bought a hot soy milk. The moment I turned around, I saw Timothy's black sedan idling at the curb.

He climbed out of the driver's seat, two steaming cups of century-egg congee in his hands. Sheila leaned out from the passenger window, her smile bright as morning sunlight.

"Thank you, Timothy, for waiting in line to get me breakfast!"

He reached over and ruffled her hair, his voice gentler than I'd ever heard it.

"Eat it while it's hot. I'll drive you to work after."

I stood behind the bakery's steamers. White curls of heat blurred my vision.

That congee came from the East District, notoriously hard to get. Timothy hated waiting in line more than anything. Back when he took me to a movie, even five extra minutes in a queue could set him off.

But for Sheila, he'd cross half the city through morning rush hour and stand in line for thirty minutes.

I remembered two weeks ago, when I'd just come home from surgery. I lay in bed, too sore to move, and told him I wanted the congee from the East District.

He sat on the couch playing his game, not even lifting his head.

"That's too far. It's over an hour round trip. Just order delivery."

When the delivery finally came, the congee had congealed into a cold lump. I forced down a few bites, fighting the nausea, and threw all of it back up.

Timothy didn't so much as set down his phone.

"Why are you so high-maintenance? A little cold won't kill you."

So he wasn't incapable of tenderness.

It was just that the person he cherished had never been me.

I dropped that untouched cup of hot soy milk into the trash can beside me.

Then I turned and went home.

That afternoon, I started erasing every trace of myself from the apartment. The matching couples' toothbrushes on the sink—I threw mine away. The his-and-hers slippers by the door went into the trash bag too. The little pickled dishes I'd made for him, still in the fridge, I poured all of them out.

Watching the rooms grow emptier, piece by piece, I felt nothing at all.

Just as I sealed the first cardboard box, the hospital called.

"Miss Pruitt, the results from your follow-up after the D&C are in. They're not good."

"You'll need to come in with a family member."

My hand froze on the tape gun.

"Can't I just come by myself?"

"We'd recommend bringing a family member, because we may need to do a minor procedure on the spot, and we'll need a relative to sign."

I was silent for two seconds.

I drew a deep breath and dialed Timothy.

The phone rang a long time before he picked up. The background was loud—cheerful electronic music, a roar of voices.

"What is it?"

There was an edge of impatience in his voice.

"The hospital wants me to come in for the follow-up results. They said it's not good, and they need a family member to come sign."

"Can you come?"

The line went quiet for two seconds.

"Didn't I tell you I'm out scouting an event venue with a client?"

"It's nothing serious, and you still need a family member there? Are you a three-year-old?"

He didn't even ask what wasn't good.

Right then, Sheila's voice rang out beside him, crisp and coaxing.

"Timothy, isn't this Stella Lou plushie cute? Will you grab it for me? Please?"

I heard it.

But I didn't call him out.

"Fine. Got it."

I hung up calmly.

And took a cab to the hospital alone.

The doctor watched me walk in by myself and let out a sigh.