Chapter 3

Oliver turned around, the drink loosening the focus in his eyes.

"Yours?"

"Anita, are you sure about that?"

I opened my mouth, and the words caught in my throat.

Three years ago, in the hospital, a patient's family came after me. The nerves in my right wrist were damaged, and I could never hold a scalpel steady again.

That was the darkest stretch of my life.

It was Oliver who appeared when I had nothing left, who paid the down payment on this apartment.

He held me and said gently, "Don't be scared, Anita. I'll take care of you."

"From now on you'll be my own private chef. All I want is for you to cook for me every day. Deal?"

For three years, I got up at six every morning, studied recipes, chopped vegetables until my left hand was covered in calluses, and made him something new every day.

I lived frugally, saved every cent I earned, wanting to pay back what he'd done for me.

I thought I'd paid it off long ago.

"What, drawing a blank?"

Oliver stepped closer and looked down at me.

"Without me, you were a cripple back then who couldn't even lift a scalpel."

"Without me covering the down payment, you'd still be scraping by in some rented room."

"Anita, all these years you ate on me, lived on me, spent my money. Put nicely, you were my girlfriend. Put plainly, my mistress."

Jeanette covered her mouth and laughed out loud.

"Anita, you still don't know, do you? This apartment was signed over to me a long time ago."

My head snapped up, my pupils shrinking.

"Last time Oliver lost a game, the thing I asked for was this apartment."

Oliver added flatly, "Jeanette wanted it, so I gave it to her."

"Oh, right."

Jeanette steadied Oliver and pulled him forward, tossing the words out lightly.

"And all that food you made? Oliver didn't eat a single bite. He sent it all over to my place."

"Would've been a shame to just throw it out. Lucky for us, my dog loves it."

I stood there, and a cold crept into my arms and legs.

All those meals I thought he'd eaten, all those flavors I adjusted so carefully, every little thing I remembered—that he hated cilantro, hated carrots—all those soups I stayed up watching over the heat...

All of it thrown out.

I turned around and pulled open the drawer.

I took out the property deed, opened it, and looked at the line for the owner.

Jeanette Matthews.

The name, plain as day.

I stared at it for a long time, my fingers shaking.

Beside the box was a thick photo album.

Eight years of pictures of me and Oliver.

Our first time seeing snow together, college graduation, our first trip, our first New Year's Eve, the fireworks the night he confessed to me...

I opened to the first page, a photo of the two of us.

But my face had been scribbled over with black marker, dense and thorough.

Turn a page, scribbled out again.

In every photo Oliver's face was perfectly clear, his eyes sharp, his smile gentle.

And mine was nothing but a smeared black blot.

On the last page, a line was written across the blank paper.

"Ugly hag, stay away from him."

I closed the album, held it to my chest, sank to the floor, and finally cried.

For eight years, I thought I was loved.

Really, from start to finish, I'd been a joke.

When I finished crying, I put the album back in the drawer, went into the bedroom, and started gathering my things.

I folded them one by one and packed them into the case.

The only letter my mother ever left me, and the medical license that hadn't expired yet.

By the time I came out of the bedroom, the rain had long stopped. Wind blew in through the window, carrying the damp of summer.

I pulled the door open and walked out.