Three Years Up, I’m Packing to Leave

Chapter 2: "It Was the Free One, Alex."

He came back the next evening.

Twenty-six hours. Not that I was counting. I'd stopped counting the hours around month eight, when "working late" became a permanent condition.

The front door opened, and I heard him in the foyer, shoes on marble, the rustle of a paper bag. He appeared in the living room doorway with that look—the one that said see? I came home. Aren't you grateful?

"Brought you something." He set a pink pastry box on the coffee table. "Waited in line for forty minutes."

The box was from La Petite, the French place on Fifth. I used to love their lemon tarts. Used to beg Alex to take me there on Sunday mornings, before Sunday mornings became another thing Emmy needed him for.

"That's sweet," I said. My voice sounded normal. Steady. "You didn't have to."

"I know I didn't." He loosened his tie, sank into the armchair across from me. "But I'm a good husband."

He said it like he was reminding himself.

I looked at the box. Then I looked at my phone, face-down on the cushion beside me, where Emmy's Twitter page was still open.

I'd found her account this morning. She hadn't even tried to hide it—her profile picture was a selfie in Alex's car, the Maserati with the custom seats. The one he told me was "in the shop."

Her latest post, timestamped three hours ago:

Obsessed with this cake from La Petite!! Thank you Honey for always knowing what I want!

Below it: a photo of an elaborate three-tier lemon cake, garnished with gold leaf and fresh flowers. And next to it, barely in frame—a small, plain pastry box. The same pink box now sitting on my coffee table.

The caption continued:

The little freebie box is cute I guess lol. Might give it to the doorman.

I set my phone down.

"You're not going to try one?" Alex was watching me, a crease between his brows.

The doorman's leftovers. He brought me the doorman's leftovers and wants a medal for it.

"Maybe later." I stood. "I'm going to bed."

"Hey." His hand caught my wrist. Warm fingers. Once, that touch had been the only thing in the world that could calm me down. Now it just felt like a lock. "You've been weird lately. What's going on?"

Weird. That's what he called it when I stopped crying.

"Nothing." I pulled free, gently. "I'm just tired."

He let me go. I made it to the stairs before he called after me: "The pastry's really good, by the way. You should try it before it goes stale."

I climbed the stairs without answering.

In the bedroom, I opened the nightstand drawer. Nine jewelry boxes. A passport. And a one-way ticket to a city where nobody knew the name Alex Anderson.

One more day.

[END CHAPTER — 478 words]