Chapter 4

Next morning, I pull the IV out of my hand and walk down to the front desk with my bill.

Passing a private room at the end of the hallway, I stop cold. I know that back.

Josh is sitting at Lindsay's bedside, a bowl of porridge in his hand. He's blowing on the spoon. Gently.

Lindsay is propped up on the pillows, pale as a ghost. She opens her mouth like a baby bird and lets him feed her.

"Joshy, this is so good. You must've been cooking for hours."

Josh wipes a grain of rice off her lip with a napkin. His voice is so soft I barely recognize it.

"You like it? I'll make it for you every single day from now on."

I stand outside that door, crumpling the bill in my fist.

Seven years. Every time I got sick, every time I ran a fever, Josh's answer was always the same: DoorDash. He swore up and down he'd burn boiling water. Said he had zero talent in the kitchen.

Turns out he could cook just fine. He just didn't want to. Not for me.

Lindsay turns her head and spots me in the doorway.

She lets out a horror-movie scream, slaps the bowl right out of Josh's hand, and dives under the covers.

"Sis, please don't blame Joshy. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have gotten sick. I shouldn't be making him take care of me."

Josh doesn't even flinch at the boiling porridge splashed on his hand. He wraps his arms around Lindsay, rubbing her back.

Then he spins around and glares at me like he wants to kill me.

"Jenna! Are you seriously doing this?!"

"I told you to cool off! What the hell are you doing on Lindsay's floor?"

Josh jabs a finger at me. Then—before I can react—he shoves me hard in the shoulder.

I stumble back three steps. My lower back slams into the hallway railing.

Sharp pain rips through my belly.

I clutch my stomach and slide down the railing to the floor.

Josh freezes. His hand twitches, like he's about to reach for me. Then Lindsay wails from inside the room.

He yanks his hand back. His face flashes annoyed.

"Cut the drama. I barely touched you."

"Get out of here. Don't make a scene in a damn hospital."

I bite down hard. Grip the railing. Pull myself up on shaking legs.

"Josh. Take a good look. This is a hospital bill."

"I was walking to the front desk to pay. Nobody's got time to watch you two put on your little soap opera."

I don't stick around for his stunned face. I walk straight to the elevator.

That night I check myself out and go back to the condo.

I just get out of the shower when my phone lights up.

Venmo notification. From Josh. $52.

Two voice memos right after.

"Baby, I lost my temper today. That's on me. I sent you some cash—go grab that seafood porridge you love, my treat. Consider it my apology."

I listen to the memo. Stare at that ridiculous $52 on my screen.

I type back one line.

"I've been allergic to shellfish for years, Josh. You never remembered. Not once."

He replies fast: "I'm sorry, babe. Work's been killing me lately. My head's a mess."

"Tomorrow I'll go to the mall myself and pick out a real gift. Just wait at home for me."

I don't reply. I toss the phone on the bed.

He doesn't come home that night.

I lie there staring at the ceiling. Wide awake.

Two in the morning, I throw the covers off and dig a stack of moving boxes out of the storage closet.

I start packing. Just my stuff.

Clothes from the closet. Skincare off the vanity. Books off the shelf. One by one, into the boxes.

I walk into the living room. Look at the gray sectional. We picked it out together at the furniture store the week we moved in.

The huge flat-screen across from it—we saved six months of bonuses for that TV.

I still remember the day it was delivered. Josh picked me up and spun me around the living room.

"Baby," he said, "I finally gave you a home."

His eyes were on fire that day.

The home is still here. The fire's out.

I sweep our matching "his & hers" mugs off the coffee table into the trash.

I pull every framed photo off the wall and dump them in a junk box.

Watching the apartment empty out, my chest goes quiet.

All that heat we had—it lost to reality in the end.

I tape up the last box. Slap the dust off my hands.

The sky outside is turning gray-blue.

I let out one long breath. Done. Finally, done.

---