After 8-Year Love Crash, I Won Big

Chapter 2

The curb was higher than it looked. The suitcase wheel caught in a c***k and toppled over, the handle cracking hard against my shin.

I bent down and picked it up.

Whenever we moved, I was always the one carrying the bags. Cole walked ahead and never looked back. I spent eight years chasing after him.

The first year, he showed up late to a basketball game, ran over drenched in sweat, and shoved a bottle of iced tea into my hands. "I'm no good with words," he said. "Don't hold it against me."

I believed him. That night he called me until past midnight, and the next day I dozed off at work and lost my monthly bonus.

Third year, my birthday. I cooked a full table of food and waited from six in the evening until eleven at night. He finally came through the door, complaining about something at the office, and tossed a small paper box onto the coffee table.

"Grabbed a cake on the way, just eat it." The frosting had cracked. The writing had smeared. I cut a slice and said nothing. I made a wish that night, that he'd come home earlier next year. He fell asleep on the couch before I'd even finished.

Fifth year, it rained. A delivery driver going the wrong way knocked me off my scooter. I caught myself with my right palm. The bone cracked. My wrist swelled purple. I sat under an awning and called him three times before he picked up.

There was noise in the background, people shouting over drinking games. "What?" he said, impatient.

"I broke my hand. I need to go to the hospital. Can you come?" Someone called his name. He covered the phone. "Is it serious? If it's not serious I'll come later, I can't get away right now."

I told him it wasn't serious and hung up. I checked in at the hospital alone, paid alone. A coin slipped from my fingers and I couldn't pick it up. He came the next afternoon, carrying a bag of strawberries, saying he'd slept in.

Seventh year, Christmas. I sliced an apple and handed it to him. "When are we getting married?" He was hunched over his phone, thumbs flying across the screen.

"What's the rush," he muttered, not looking up. "It's not like I'm going anywhere." I gripped the fringe on the throw pillow and pulled until a thread snapped.

Eight years. The wall I'd built out of self-deception finally came down.

I walked up to the front desk of a budget hotel and slid my ID across the counter. "One room with a double bed."