“Look, Rosella!” Liza came holding her tablet as she made her way to me. “Number one in trending stories, most sought after and reader’s choice is ‘The Wife He Lost!”
She grinned, placing the tablet in front of me. We were in a coffee shop, a few heads. turning at her remarks.
“You’re gaining popularity,” she whispered.
She did a quick happy dance. I chuckled, glancing at the screen. I’d seen it last night, expecting it to be replaced by morning, there were thousands of other great stories.
“It’s only been two months, and you’re soaring!” she said, sitting down. “If you hadn’t married so early, you could’ve been the next J.K. Rowling!”
“I don’t think so…” I shyly replied.
I looked away and smiled.
“Remember, this story came from my failed marriage with Darius. Without that, what would I have written?”
She grimaced and nodded. It was true. Without it, there’d be no story. Maybe I’d still be chasing fairytales that don’t exist.
There’s no Prince Charming, no fairytale ending. Stories end in three ways: fake–happy, tragic, or unclear.
Mine isn’t tragic. I left, and I’m finally living my own life. I’m free.
“Where’s Mr. Dream Guy, by the way?” she grinned at me. “Surprising he didn’t follow you here?”
“Tsk. Stop teasing us, Liza. Erik is just a friend,” I said.
“A friend who buys you flowers and expensive, personalized gifts?” she laughed. “That’s more than friendly.”
“Don’t start,” I said. “He’s only doing it because Desmond asked him to. And he’s a good friend, I heard him talking to a woman the other night. I think he has a girlfriend.”
Liza pouted at me. “Are you jealous?”
I shook my head. “What? It’s only been two months since I left Darius. You really think I’d move on that fast?”
“Why not?” she replied. “You’ve been emotionally done long before that. He stopped caring after your miscarriage.”
I fell silent. But that’s not reason enough to jump into something new. We’re not even officially divorced yet, Darius still refuses to sign the papers. He’s too stubborn.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s holding on because he thinks I’ll come back. Or if he’s just waiting to see if this separation is real.
That night, while writing the second–to–last chapter of my story, I heard a knock. I opened
the door and found a cake with a lit candle and a note: “A very late happy birthday. I’m
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lete with a silan pout on the lips. You do the about it. We cut off our connection with Desmond as he said, so I didn’t know it was that late.”
1 bit my lip and nodded.
“Happy birthday to you…” he started singing off–key.
“Really late,” I added to his song.
“Happy birthday to you…”
“Really late,” then I chuckled and joined in the second voice.
On the third verse, I blew out the candle. He took some icing and smeared it on my chin.
“You’re unfair. You didn’t tell me it was your birthday. You didn’t even celebrate?” he teased. I pouted. “You were busy that day with work. Liza was too, but she made time the next day. We went out, but you stayed busy all week.”
Last month, I wasn’t sure we were close enough for me to share my birthday, especially since you didn’t ask about it. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it; your help was a gift enough.
“I’ll buy you a gift tomorrow. I only learned about it now, and luckily, I can bake,” he said. “You’re an advanced birthday gift to me, Erik. You helping me get out of that house is already a gift,” I said, wiping the icing and tasting it.
“And really? You know how to bake?” I asked, impressed.
He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I can do a lot of things, Rosella. You’d be impressed once you see it.”
We decided to go to the kitchen. Honestly, I never knew a very late birthday celebration could be this happy.
Before, with Darius, it was always on time, with big parties, many gifts, and all kinds of celebrations. Now, it’s simple. But peaceful. I’m being true to myself rather than pretending to enjoy a party with guests I don’t even know. I’m happy even though it’s late.
“Thank you for this dinner, Erik,” I said after taking a sip of wine.
He had prepared a simple birthday dinner, and we just talked. He congratulated me on my success with my story.
“I’m doing great. Do you think I could find my own place now?” I asked after a while.
He stared meaningfully.
“Why? You don’t want to stay with me anymore?”
I smiled and shook my head. No. But you’ve been so kind. I’m starting to feel guilty,” I said.
“Don’t be,” he said, sitting up and resting his elbows on the table. “This house has become lively because of you, Rosella. Don’t be shy. I love having you here. I want you to stay here.” I don’t know why, but the way he looked at me as he spoke those words felt deeper and
more meaningful. Was it the wine we’re drinking right now that’s affecting me? Because my heart started beating faster, and my thoughts began to race.
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Really?” I asked In a quiet voice.
The side of his lips curved. “Really,” he mumbled.
