Seven Years, Then I Walked Away

At the company team-building day, we played "3-2-1, look this way," and the CEO, my fiancé, got pulled in to play.

Every time it came down to him and me, he never looked where I pointed.

I lost round after round, until the ice water left me soaked through.

He handed me a dry towel and lowered his voice. "Sorry about this. I have to set an example. I can't go easy."

When it was the new secretary's turn, she pressed her palms together and blinked up at him.

"Go easy on me, Roddy. I don't want to end up a drowned rat."

He gave a small laugh, something indulgent in his eyes.

The game began. Wherever she pointed, that was where he looked.

He was the one who ended up soaked.

The CEO rarely lost, and everyone cheered him on.

I was the only one who couldn't laugh.

"Weren't you not going to go easy? Why does she keep winning?"

Roderick Gilbert's face cooled. "There's a time and place for wanting to win. She's on her period. She can't get chilled."

I lowered my eyes.

Seven years together.

He could remember the new secretary's cycle.

But he forgot I had cold-induced hives.

The moment I got cold, red welts rose on my skin, itching unbearably, and in bad cases I could even go into shock.

He followed my gaze to the raised patches of red blooming up my arm, and his brow creased.

I thought he was finally about to feel for me. Instead I heard him say,

"They'll be gone in half an hour. Just tough it out."

I looked up in time to see him hurrying off.

To help up the secretary, who had fallen during the tug-of-war.

Something in me went slack.

I couldn't do this anymore.

The winters in New York, like him, were getting harder and harder to bear.

I decided to leave, to go somewhere with long summers and no winter.

...

Team-building wrapped up, and everyone set off for dinner.

I walked to the car. Bernice Swanson was already sitting in Roderick's passenger seat, head down, touching up her makeup.

The Patek Philippe on her wrist threw off a cold flash in the sunlight.

It was the limited edition Roderick had bid up recklessly at auction.

I'd pretended not to know, thinking it was a birthday surprise.

But last week, on my birthday, he'd said he forgot to get me anything.

Bernice paused, then shook her wrist a little.

"It's a little gift from Roddy. For my hundredth day on the job."

I said nothing.

Roderick opened the driver's door and glanced at me.

"Lottie Fox, you sit in the back." He adjusted the seat for her. "Bernice twisted her ankle. She can stretch her legs out up front, so it won't hurt as much."

His tone was perfectly casual.

That promise, "the passenger seat is only ever yours," was like my fading hives, as if it had never existed at all.

Only my skin and my heart still remembered the burn of it.

I turned and got into the back.

At the table, not one of the shrimp Roderick peeled made it into my bowl. He fed them all to Bernice.

I didn't make a sound. I just drank, glass after glass.

"Ease up," he said, frowning. "Your stomach's bad. Did you forget?"

A coworker overheard and leaned in.

"Mr. Gilbert really cares about Director Fox. To get where you two are, you must have been through a lot together."

Roderick's hand, mid-motion putting food on Bernice's plate, stalled.

I smiled, bitterness in my throat.

In the early days of the company, I often went out to entertain clients with him.

Once, helping him land a difficult account, I drank until my stomach bled.

He'd cried until his eyes were red at my bedside, half-knelt on the floor and swore he would never make me sad again as long as he lived.

But in the few months since Bernice arrived, I'd lost count of how many times he had.

Another coworker joined in. "Mr. Gilbert, I hear you two are getting married? When's the wedding?"

Roderick froze, then looked at me. "What's the date again?"

I looked at his puzzled face, my voice hollow. "Your own wedding, and you can't remember the date."