Chapter 3

"Hazel? I brought you some things."

The next day at noon, there was a knock on my hotel room door.

It was Valerie. She stood in the hallway holding a dark brown paper bag, a conflicted look on her face.

"Ethan asked me to drop this off. He hopes you can cool down."

Inside the bag was a cake box with a cream-white finish and a gold-foil logo.

I knew this bakery. It was a trendy spot where people lined up for thirty minutes. I had mentioned wanting to try it once, but he hadn't even looked up, just saying, "Maybe another day."

"Where is he?"

"At the office," Valerie paused. "He said he'll come pick you up himself after his meetings this afternoon."

I took the box.

"Thanks, Valerie."

She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but ultimately just sighed and left.

After the door closed, I set the box on the table and opened it.

A three-layer mousse cake, topped with meticulously sliced mangoes.

Mango.

I used a small fork to nudge the top layer aside. The filling was mango, too.

I couldn't help but laugh. But it wasn't a happy sound.

He knew I didn't eat shrimp, but he couldn't distinguish between my shrimp allergy and a mango allergy.

Now, to apologize, he bought a mango cake.

How many things on Ethan's "Hazel's Preferences" list were actually accurate?

At 3:30 PM, he arrived.

He pushed the door open, his suit jacket draped over his forearm, sleeves rolled up twice. He looked like he had run all the way. But his watch face was turned toward the back of his hand—a subconscious habit. He was checking the time.

"Did you eat the cake?" He immediately looked at the table.

The box was open, the fork sticking out of it, practically untouched.

"I had a bite."

"How was it? The line was incredibly long."

"Did you stand in it?"

He paused. "I had the intern grab it, but I placed the order."

The intern.

Which one? I didn't need to ask.

"Ethan," I sat in the chair by the window, not bothering to stand. "This cake is mango."

"Yeah."

"I don't like mangoes."

His expression stiffened for a second before he suppressed it. "But aren't you... didn't you say you weren't allergic?"

"Not being allergic and liking it are two different things. We've been married for four years, and there has never been a single mango in our fridge. Whose taste buds were you thinking of when you ordered this?"

Silence fell over the room.

He threw his jacket onto the bed, gripped the edge of the table, and looked down, avoiding my eyes.

"Can you not always jump to conclusions?"

"Which conclusions?"

"You know what I mean," he looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "Chloe is just a fresh grad interning at the firm. I'm just looking out for her—"

"She posts your 'care' all over Instagram."

He shut his mouth.

"'It feels so good when someone remembers your little preferences'—did you order her a separate takeout? Did you specifically tell them no mangoes?"

"That's because on her first day, a colleague ordered mango milk tea for her. She took one sip and her lips swelled up! Of course I had to remember. It's basic managerial duty—"

"And what about your basic duty as a husband?"

My voice wasn't loud, but it seemed to choke him.

Silence stretched between us. He stood; I sat.

Then, he snapped.

"Hazel, enough," he pulled out a chair and sat down, his knees nearly slamming into the table leg. "She's just a girl with a mango allergy. I'm her boss, so I know her medical limits. How does that translate to an affair in your head? Have you just been a stay-at-home wife for too long? Are you so out of touch with the real world that you're this insecure?"

"Stay-at-home wife. Out of touch. Insecure."

None of these words were new.

Four years ago, when his startup failed, he completely broke down. He wouldn't eat, shower, or leave the house.

I quit my job as a lead illustrator at an art studio to care for him 24/7. When he woke up at 3:00 AM from nightmares saying life wasn't worth living, I hid every sharp object in the house.

That was when I started drawing the "Observation Journal"—tracking his daily progress, sketching him eating, capturing the first time he smiled.

That journal got him through his darkest six months.

Now, he stood across from me, telling me I was out of touch.

"Ethan, not only is your memory failing, but so is your conscience."

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

"Take the cake with you," I stood up to grab my suitcase. "I'm staying with Maya."

"You—"

"Don't follow me."

I dragged my suitcase through the hotel lobby. It wasn't cold, but the wind felt harsh against my face.

At checkout, the receptionist asked, "Need me to call a cab?"

"No, thank you."

While waiting at the crosswalk, my phone buzzed.

A text from Ethan: "Fine. Go stay with your best friend for a couple of days to clear your head. Just don't take too long."

As if he were granting me permission to take a breath of fresh air.

I didn't reply. I put my phone in my pocket and crossed the street.