Chapter 2
812 Words
"Thank God. You've finally come to your senses."
I wasn't in the mood to talk. I gave him a few half-hearted responses and hung up.
I leaned my head against the car window, watching the scenery blur past.
This time, I was leaving for good. Thousands of miles between south and north—we'd probably never see each other again.
Jason didn't come home that night. I couldn't sleep, so I opened my laptop and started updating my resume.
Everything in the apartment that belonged to him, I shoved into cardboard boxes without any order.
I even listed the apartment online, desperate to sublet it as soon as possible.
The next morning, Jason came in with breakfast and tripped over a box by the door.
He glanced inside and saw it was all his stuff. "Why'd you pack everything up?"
I brushed it off with a vague answer. He bought it and didn't push.
He took off his jacket, wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, and rested his head on my shoulder. His breath was warm against my skin.
Two days ago, I would've turned around, stood on my tiptoes, and kissed him. But now I felt nothing. I just wanted to shove him out the door.
Sensing my lack of interest, he explained in a low voice.
He didn't come home last night because Chloe had just gotten back to the country. Dinner with friends ran late, and he didn't want to wake me.
"So where did you sleep last night?"
He nuzzled his nose against my neck. "Just got a hotel room. Crashed there with the guys."
Really?
Because I could clearly smell heavy perfume on him.
And out of the corner of my eye, I could see a faint lipstick stain on his collar.
I pulled away, turned around, and opened my laptop to send out resumes.
Jason glanced at the screen. "Why are you applying to places back home? I thought we were going to work down south together."
"Just keeping my options open."
Seeing my blank expression, he let out a quiet "oh" and said nothing more. He changed his clothes and said he was heading to the office.
After he went downstairs, I walked out onto the balcony.
I watched his car pull away, in the opposite direction from his office.
Was he going to work?
Or was he going to see Chloe?
It didn't matter anymore. He could see whoever he wanted.
I was done with this boyfriend.
That evening, I went back to campus to pack up my things and had dinner with my roommates.
They kept exchanging glances and stammering, so I finally asked. It turned out they'd seen Jason carrying a woman into the hospital.
I picked up a piece of food, calm as ever. "It's fine. He told me she's an old family friend."
They looked like they wanted to say more but held back. I finished my hotpot, took a cab home, and texted Jason.
Yanna: Where are you? Coming home for dinner?
He replied instantly.
Jason: Yeah.
Half an hour later, he walked through the door, with Chloe standing right behind him.
Without a word to me, he led her inside and even opened my brand-new slippers for her to wear.
I said nothing and stayed in my chair, browsing the web.
Seeing nothing but a single glass of water on the dining table, Jason demanded to know why I hadn't cooked.
I kept typing, eyes on the screen. "Already ate with friends."
He was visibly annoyed. "Then why did you ask if I was coming home to eat? I brought a friend over."
"I was just asking. Besides, you have two hands. If you want to eat, cook something yourself."
Jason couldn't take the embarrassment. He walked over and hissed at me, "Can you stop being so unreasonable? Chloe and I are just friends."
"I never said there was anything shady going on. Why so defensive?"
Sensing the tension, Chloe stepped in to explain. She said she'd had too much to drink and wasn't feeling well. With her eyesight, it wasn't easy getting around on her own, so she'd come back with Jason.
I ignored her. She felt her way into the kitchen with her cane.
Jason took the bowl from her hands and insisted on cooking himself.
In two months of living together, I'd made every single meal and brought it to the table for him.
I was about to laugh at the absurdity of it. But then he actually started cooking.
Less than an hour later, three dishes and a soup sat on the table, made by the man who'd never once lifted a finger for me.
The bitterness was overwhelming.
The fool in this story was me all along.
It wasn't that he couldn't cook. He just never wanted to cook for me.
- Writer
