1 Ian fastened my seatbelt for me, a gesture so familiar, so natural, it felt like muscle memory. He’d just wrapped up a major merger negotiation, a weariness still etched around his eyes, yet he’d remembered to pick me up from work, even though I was working late. “Evie,” he said, his voice soft, handing me a warm paper bag. “Your favorite roasted chestnuts. Just bought them.” Warmth spread from my fingertips to my heart. I peeled one open, thinking this was just another ordinary moment of happiness. Then, he spoke, his tone unnervingly calm. “Oh, right. That day last week, your birthday. I told you I had a last-minute business dinner, but I actually took the new intern to the hospital.” I turned to look at him. A hint of weariness, almost helplessness, crossed his face. “She… she accidentally got pregnant with my child. She’s so young, she was terrified. I figured you, being the most understanding, would get it, right? When a man’s out and about, these things happen.” … I started to tremble. He reached over, casually adjusting the car’s AC up a degree. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” He paused at a red light, turning to look at me. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. “Evie,” his voice remained oddly flat. “Don’t be like this. The girl is young, just out of college. She’s all alone here, and she was crying her eyes out that day. What was I supposed to do, just ignore her?” The light turned green. He pressed the accelerator. “Just think of it as… me doing a good deed.” I whipped my head around to stare at him. A good deed. “Is that the point? The point isn’t that you cheated and you’re only telling me now?” “Why would I tell you?” He shot me a strange look. “To upset you? What could you change even if you knew? It’s already happened.” He said it with such an air of righteous indignation, as if I were the one being unreasonable. He parked the car, but didn’t immediately unbuckle his seatbelt. Instead, he turned to face me. “Evie,” he said, his gaze steady. “When a man’s out and about, these things happen. I’m practically the last one among my friends to have an affair. I know what I’m doing. Flings are just flings; I always come home. Don’t worry, you’re different from the other women.” He reached out, as if to ruffle my hair, just like he used to. I flinched away. His hand froze in mid-air, and his face visibly darkened. He withdrew his hand, letting out a small, mirthless laugh. “Alright, take your time. Anyway, I’ve broken it off completely with that girl. If you can’t handle this, then in the future, I’ll try my best to keep you from knowing.” He finished, grabbed the bag of chestnuts, unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out of the car. The chestnut in my hand had been crushed, sticking to my palm in a messy pulp. I suddenly remembered that winter in my junior year. I had a terrible cold and a fever. My roommate called him, and he was in class. Half an hour later, he appeared downstairs at my dorm, covered in snow. I bundled up in my down jacket and went down. His hair and shoulders were white with snow, his nose bright red from the cold. “Roasted chestnuts,” he sniffled, smiling. “My Evie eats something sweet, and her sickness will go away faster.” His hands were like ice blocks, but he peeled the chestnuts for me first. I ate and cried simultaneously. He asked why I was crying, promising that one day, when we were rich, he’d buy them for me every single day. Later, we did get rich. He no longer had to brave a snowstorm to cross half the city. “Still not coming up? The chestnuts will get cold and won’t taste good.” My phone buzzed. He had showered and was now in his pajamas, watching financial news on the sofa. The bag of chestnuts sat on the coffee table, open, completely cold. “Wash your hands and come eat.” He didn’t look up. His suit jacket was carelessly tossed over the console in the entryway. A tube of lipstick peeked out of the pocket. Last month, when he’d gone to a nearby town for a project, he’d brought me back specialty pastries. Ian’s voice drifted from the living room. “Evie, what are you doing?” I looked at him. When had he become so rotten? “Alright,” he said, patting my shoulder. “Don’t overthink it. I’ve handled everything cleanly. Go wash your hands; the chestnuts really are cold now.” He turned and walked back to the living room, resuming his news program. A week ago, while he was at the hospital with another woman, I was at home, waiting for him to return so we could eat the birthday cake I’d made. The cake eventually went stale. He’d told me he was in a bad mood because the project hadn’t gone through, and I’d comforted him, saying it was alright. 2 I crouched in the entryway, trying to throw up, but nothing came. Just dry retching, one after another. Ian finally turned off the TV. He walked over and stood in front of me, wearing the matching slippers I’d bought us last year. “Are you being dramatic?” he asked. I looked up, my vision blurred, unable to make out his face. “When did it start?” I asked. “What?” “You and her,” I choked out, my voice raw and desperate, like any woman discovering her partner’s infidelity. “When did you two get together?” He frowned slightly. “Does it matter?” “Yes, it matters.” I used the cabinet to pull myself up, my legs weak. “Tell me, Ian. Just tell me when.” He was silent for a few seconds, then said, “This spring, I guess. The company hired interns, and she was assigned to my department.” Over half a year. “How many?” I asked again. His face darkened. “Evie, what are you trying to say?” “I’m asking you how many others there have been!” I suddenly screamed, my voice echoing in the empty living room. “How many more? Who else? Tell me everything, right now!” He looked at me as if I were insane, then he let out a laugh, full of weary resignation. “Do you have to be like this? I told you, it’s all been handled. She’s been sent away, I gave her money. What more do you want? Do you expect me to spend my entire life only with you?” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Don’t all men do this?” he continued, his tone suggesting that infidelity was common knowledge everyone should accept. “Business dinners, playing along, it’s all normal. You’re going to be my wife; can’t you be more understanding? Look at Mrs. Kensington, her husband has three mistresses, and she still goes shopping and plays cards like nothing’s wrong.” My ears buzzed. Mrs. Kensington, always smiling at parties, always praising how wonderful her husband was to her. “I’m not like her. We shouldn’t be like that,” I said. “How are we different?” Ian took a step closer, looking down at me. “Evie, I’ve been with you for seven years. Seven years. Have I ever neglected you? The house is in your name, you drive the car, you can spend money however you want. I’ve just had a few affairs; why are you making such a big deal out of it?” He reached out to touch my face. I recoiled, and his hand stopped mid-air. “Fine,” he retracted his hand, nodding. “You think about it.” He turned and went into the bedroom. I stood in the living room, staring at that closed door, suddenly remembering so many years ago. We had just graduated, broke, renting a tiny, rundown studio apartment. The day we moved in, he mysteriously pulled a potted plant from behind his back. “A lemon tree,” he’d said. “When it bears fruit, we’ll have a real home.” He’d knelt on the floor, using a key to engrave our initials into the bottom of the pot. He’d said, “Evie, you’ll be the boss of our home.” That lemon tree eventually did bear fruit. He’d said when it produced a few more, he’d pick them for me to make honey water. Later, we bought this house, and the tree came with us. I walked to the balcony. The lemon tree’s leaves were mostly yellow, some already withered, curling at the edges and falling off. When had it started to wither? I noticed his work tablet on the coffee table. He usually never brought it home. On a sudden impulse, I picked it up and opened it. The screen saver was a girl’s sleeping face. Young, fair-skinned, long eyelashes, hair fanned out on a pillow—it was our bedroom pillow. I checked the timestamp: three months ago, when I was on a business trip to Seattle. The night before I left, he’d held me, saying he’d miss me, asking me to come back soon. The day I left, he drove me to the airport, kissed me at security, and said, “Call me when you land.” When I arrived in Seattle, I called to check in, but he didn’t answer. Later, he texted that he was in a meeting. It turned out that night, he was in our bed, holding another girl. 3 The bedroom door suddenly opened. Ian walked out and saw the tablet in my hand. His face instantly changed. “How many is this one?” I asked. He didn’t speak, heading to the kitchen for water. I followed him. “Ian, say something!” He finished his water, then turned to face me. “Evie, do you have to do this?” “Do what?” My voice trembled. “I’m asking you a question! Are you deaf?” After a long silence, he sighed. “Evie, the young girl was a bit naive. I told you I’d try my best to keep things from you in the future.” I looked at him, at this man I’d loved for seven years, and suddenly he felt like a complete stranger. “You said you’d only ever love me,” I said. “You said when the lemon tree bore fruit, we’d get married. You said…” “Evie, I’m tired,” he cut me off. “If you want to break up, fine. If you want to continue, fine. I don’t care. But remember this: the world is just like this, not as clean as you imagine. Even if you were with someone else, it would be the same.” He let go of me and pulled a keyring from his pocket. “See?” He dangled the keys. “I still keep the most important things. Evie, you’re still different to me.” I stared at that key. The year we graduated, when he couldn’t find a job, he’d gotten drunk, held me, and cried. “Evie, I only have you,” he’d wept like a child. “What would I do without you?” That old brass key belonged to the tiny, run-down studio apartment he’d saved up for ages to rent. When he gave me the key, he’d said, “This will be our foundation.” Different? Different how? Was I just more qualified than the other women to be his respectable cover? I snatched the key and hurled it at him. “Ian, you’re disgusting!” “Are you done with your tantrum?” He took a step forward, glaring down at me. “What do you think you even have left now? You quit your job, you lost your friends, you’ve spent every day revolving around me! Without me, could you even survive?” He pressed me back, my spine hitting the cold entryway wall. “How I live is none of your concern!” “If I don’t care for you, who will?” He raised a hand and gripped my chin, his fingers digging in. “Evie, settle down. Mrs. Chen will still be your title. Keep this up, and you’ll lose everything!” I struggled violently, pushing him away. “I don’t want it!” He probably hadn’t expected me to use such force. He stumbled, instinctively pushing me back. I was standing at the edge of the entryway steps; my foot missed, and I toppled backward. I saw Ian’s horrified face, his hand reaching out but failing to grasp me. Seconds later, excruciating pain exploded in my lower abdomen, as if a hand was violently twisting inside me. I curled into a ball, cold sweat instantly soaking my clothes. Ian rushed over. “Evie?!” “It hurts…” Blood. Warm, thick blood streamed down my legs, staining the pale floor. “I… I’ll call an ambulance!” He fumbled for his phone, fumbling several times before unlocking it. The doctor removed her mask. “Approximately eight weeks pregnant, miscarried. Is the family here?” “How…” Ian stood by the bed, his lips moving. “How did she get pregnant now?” The doctor gave him a look, but said nothing. Ian turned to me, his expression complex, a fleeting moment of panic quickly replaced by irritation. “Evie, I’m upset about the baby too, but it’s done. What more do you want from me?” I lay on the hospital bed, my abdomen still throbbing faintly, my heart utterly numb.
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