1 In the fifth year of our secret marriage, my asexual wife finally agreed to a public wedding. But on our wedding day, nestled inside the ring box I presented to her, was a used condom. Before I could even react, the man who had been in love with my wife for years made a grand entrance, wearing the very suit my wife had designed for me. He held up his hand, showing off a wedding band, his eyes dripping with contempt. "Sorry, man," he drawled. "I had a little too much to drink at the bachelor party last night. Your wife helped me… put out the fire. Seven times." "In the heat of the moment," he continued, "she put your ring on my finger." "As for that little souvenir in your box… my mistake. I meant to keep it for myself." He slipped the ring off his finger and pressed it into my hand, his voice laced with mock regret. "Vivian, I'm heading abroad to find my own true love. You don't have to keep up this charade for me anymore—this whole 'asexual' thing you've been telling your husband." "And congratulations on your wedding." Amidst the shocked gasps of our guests, Vivian snatched the ring from my hand. "I'll make it up to you," she muttered, "the wedding, the ring, all of it." But as I watched her walk away, all I felt was a profound, nauseating exhaustion. If she was going to be this filthy, then for once, I would be the one with standards. … When Vivian returned, she was wearing a suit that matched Andrew's. They were holding hands. I had just finished announcing that the wedding was canceled and that the celebration was now for my promotion. The applause died the moment they stepped into the room. Her eyes scanned the empty space where our wedding portrait should have been, then landed on the projector screen displaying my professional achievements. Her face darkened. "Damian! What the hell are you doing? This is supposed to be a wedding!" "Where's the wedding video?" I didn't look up. I calmly signed my name on the contract for my overseas assignment, which started in three days. When I finally raised my eyes, my gaze fell on Andrew, who was casually toying with the wedding ring he had handed me an hour ago—the ring that was now back on his finger. He offered a smarmy grin. "Don't get the wrong idea, man. Vivian insisted. She said… this ring and this suit were always meant for me. She designed them to my measurements." How laughable. He said it so casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. My wedding ring, designed by my wife for another man. The irony was suffocating. "And this suit," he added, "I wasn't even going to wear it today. Didn't want to steal your thunder. But Vivian said she wanted to see me in it, so… what could I do?" "If it bothers you, I can take it off right now." I could see the smug triumph in his eyes. I swallowed my disgust. "It doesn't bother me," I said, my voice flat. "Do whatever you want." "Whatever you claim is yours, is yours. No one's going to fight you for it anymore." I picked up my glass to leave, but Vivian grabbed my wrist. "That's enough, Damian. Are you done? I'm back, aren't I? What's with the attitude?" Her brow was furrowed, as if I were the one being unreasonable. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for Andrew to be out there alone? Was it so wrong for me to go after him?" "If there was really something between us, you would have been out of the picture a long time ago!" The old me would have screamed, would have fought. Now, I just felt a deep, weary pity for the man I used to be. My silence seemed to enrage her. She took a deep breath, then softened her tone, though it was still edged with impatience. She pressed a piece of candy into my palm. "Come on. Isn't this the day you've been waiting for? Stop making a scene. Here, have some candy. You love candy, remember?" "Eat it, and try to smile. The ceremony time has passed, so we'll just skip it." "Go change. We'll make the rounds and toast the guests together." I stared at the mango-flavored candy in my hand. The irony was a bitter pill. She remembered every one of Andrew’s measurements, every one of his preferences, every one of his weaknesses. But she had forgotten that I was deathly allergic to mango. The last time I’d had a severe reaction, the time I’d ended up in the emergency room, it was because Andrew had secretly added mango puree to my drink. She had sat by my hospital bed, her eyes red, clutching my hand. "Damian, I'm so sorry," she’d whispered. "It's all my fault… I didn't explain it to him properly." "I promise, from now on, I will never forget." The promise echoed in my memory, a ghost only I could hear. I was about to speak, to salvage what little dignity I had left, when Andrew suddenly swayed, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Viv… Vivian… I think… I think my blood sugar is low…" Without a moment's hesitation, she snatched the candy from my hand and gently fed it to him. Looking at them, in their matching suits, I felt a wave of revulsion. When I returned, changed into a burgundy tuxedo, I found Vivian peeling shrimp and placing them in Andrew's mouth. One of her friends tried to smooth things over. "Damian, don't mind her. Viv… she just has poor boundaries, that's all. But she really does love you. We can all see it." I almost laughed out loud. Vivian had once been known for being completely professional and distant with men. My birthday was her phone password. She reported back from every social gathering with male friends. She had once frozen out a business partner for making an off-color joke. But those clear, firm boundaries had crumbled two years ago, when her childhood friend, Andrew, had reappeared with a stack of old love letters, confessing that he had been in love with her his whole life and could never love anyone else. "Vivi." Andrew's voice broke through my thoughts. He raised his glass, a provocative glint in his eye as he looked at me. "I hear that when you cross arms and drink at a wedding, it means you'll be together forever…" He quickly waved his hand, feigning nonchalance. "Don't get me wrong! I meant… as best friends. Without you, I just don't know what I'd do…" All eyes were on them. Vivian hesitated for only a second before she linked her arm with his and they drank. "Andrew," she said, her voice earnest, "you don't have to be so careful around me. We'll be best friends forever." I started clapping, a wide, bright smile on my face. "To the happy couple! May you have three kids in two years and be stuck with each other for eternity!" A colleague came over with a drink, her expression sympathetic. "Damian, here. Don't let people who want to have their cake and eat it too ruin your mood." "On behalf of the whole company, congratulations on your promotion. May you leave the drama behind and have a brilliant career!" I raised my glass in a toast, but was interrupted by Vivian's cold, incredulous voice. "Damian, are you so desperate for attention that you'd resort to putting on a play?" She raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down. "As I recall, you can't even make a decent PowerPoint presentation. You, getting a promotion? Your boss must be blind." At that, my boss, Mr. Hayes, stood up. "Ms. Archer, please watch your words. Damian earned this promotion on his own merit. In three days, he will be assuming the role of Regional Executive Director…" Before he could finish, Andrew cut in. "I'm sorry, Vivian. It's all my fault for being so useless… I shouldn't have come. You should stay with your husband. I'll just go to a bar for a while. I’m still not feeling great from whatever I took last night…" He turned and strode away. Vivian glanced at me, then grabbed her car keys without a second thought. "You go home and wait for me. I'll go check on him." She didn't even wait for my reply before she was gone, chasing after him once again. The company was efficient. I had my flight confirmation before I had even finished packing that night. Just as I was checking the details, Mr. Hayes called. "Damian, are you sure you don't want to take advantage of the company's family accompaniment benefit? I thought you couldn't bear to be away from Vivian, that was why you never wanted the London post. It's a five-year assignment. Are you sure this won't affect your marriage?" I shook my head, even though he couldn't see me. "No, thank you. Some things just can't be forced." "A good marriage is a two-way street," he said, his tone approving. "Honestly, if Vivian really cherished you, she wouldn't have made you wait five years for a wedding, only to pull a stunt like this." "It's good that you're focusing on your career now. At least you won't lose yourself." "Yes, Mr. Hayes," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "You can count on me. I won't let you down in London." I had just hung up when I heard Vivian's voice. "What London trip? You're going on a business trip? Why didn't you discuss it with me?" She had come in without me noticing. Her face was a mask of displeasure. I didn't explain. I just looked away, unable to meet her gaze. The angry red and purple marks on her neck were too disgusting to look at. As I walked past her towards the bedroom, she instinctively took a few steps back, putting distance between us. I felt a surge of self-loathing. In all our years together, she had rarely touched me. Even holding hands was a rarity. Her excuse was always the same: she had severe OCD and hated physical contact. But now I saw the truth. Her aversion was only for me. She followed me into the bedroom and saw my suitcase. Her voice rose in anger. "Damian, what is the meaning of this? Do you have anything to say to me? How long is this trip?" Before I could answer, her phone rang, a shrill, urgent sound. "Vivian, can you… can you not have your wedding night just yet? The power's out over here, and there's a thunderstorm. I'm not feeling well… I don't want to be here alone…" Vivian immediately turned to leave, her tone shifting from accusatory to anxious. "Andrew, don't cry!" "Don't worry, I'm on my way to get you." The cold click of the door shutting echoed in the silent apartment. She had left me again, without a second thought. The London trip, my promotion, all of it forgotten. I forced a bitter smile, pulled myself together, and walked out with my suitcase. I spent the next two days in a hotel. I couldn't bear the thought of sharing a roof with her. As for the pair of custom motorcycle helmets I had once treasured, displayed in a special cabinet in the entryway… I took the man's and left the woman's. Once my most prized possession, I now tossed it into a dumpster without a second thought. As the rain began to fall, spattering against the helmet, I saw a vision of the old Vivian. Back then, we couldn't afford a motorcycle, let alone matching helmets. We had just graduated from the same high school, both of us from the foster care system, and had gotten into the same university. We fell in love. We had nothing, but we had each other, sharing a rental bike and dreaming of the future. The Vivian from my memories was dead. Back then, she didn't have a case of "asexuality" that was conveniently specific to me. She didn't have an "aversion to physical contact." The next morning, I printed out divorce papers. I was going to give them to my lawyer, but Vivian called. She said it was urgent and that I needed to come over immediately. The moment I stepped through the door, a wave of dizziness washed over me. My blood sugar was crashing, and I didn't have any candy in my bag. I saw a glass of milk on the table, and I took a sip, but Vivian snatched it away. "Damian, where are your manners? Was that for you? You just take whatever you want? Taking without asking is stealing, you know!" "You have no upbringing at all!" She frowned, disgusted, and threw the milk I had drunk from into the trash. She even grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and disinfected the cup and her own hands. The sight of it made my eyes burn. A disgust I had never felt before rose in my throat. "Vivian, I've been with you since I was twenty. I've lost count of how many meals I've cooked for you." "And in your eyes, when my blood sugar is low, I can't even have a sip of your milk?" She stared at me for a moment, then said coldly, "If you want a drink, you have hands, don't you?" "That was for Andrew." Then, as if a new thought had occurred to her, she added, her voice dripping with contempt, "Damian, when did you become so shameless? You're like a pathetic copycat. It's nauseating." "You know Andrew has low blood sugar, so today you pretend to have it too? Just to get my attention? You have no shame." With that, she went into the kitchen and resumed her task of learning to fry an egg from an online tutorial. I stood there, stunned. It felt as if years of my devotion had been thrown to a dog that could never be tamed. I opened the papers to the last page and held out a pen, but she didn't even glance at me. Her entire focus was on the tutorial and the frying pan. For a moment, I saw the old Vivian again. It was in the early days of our startup. We were just starting to see some success. I had given up my own dreams to focus on schmoozing clients, drinking until my stomach bled. When she rushed to the hospital, her face was etched with worry. But when I told her I wanted some of her homemade porridge, she refused. "Damian, you're a grown man. Don't be so demanding. We can just order takeout." "I can't cook to save my life. I'll never set foot in a kitchen…" The memories were like sharp knives, gutting me. Just then, Andrew shuffled out of our bedroom, yawning. He was wearing my pajamas, his eyes still heavy with sleep. The marks on his collarbone were even more vivid than the ones on Vivian's neck. Vivian's attention was immediately captured. "Andrew, you're up so early. Is your head still hurting?" I stepped in front of her as she moved towards him. "Sign it," I said, my voice low and steady. "Or no one is having a good day today." Andrew whined, "Vivi, I'm hungry! Just give your husband what he wants, don't fight with him." "I want breakfast. Made by you." Vivian smiled and nodded. When she looked back at me, her face was a thundercloud. She snatched the papers and signed her name without even reading them. "Get out of my way." I suppressed every emotion threatening to boil over, took the papers, and turned to leave. But she called out to me. "I signed it, didn't I? What's your problem now?" "I called you back here to make hangover soup for Andrew. Get to it. And don't take all day." A bitter taste filled my mouth. In our poorest, most difficult days, we were constantly entertaining clients, eating erratically, drinking too much. The first thing I had learned to cook was hangover soup. I was about to refuse, to just walk out, but then I saw the faint scar on her forehead from a burn, and I went into the kitchen. "Vivian," I said, my voice carrying out to her, "this is the last time." Years ago, I had been trapped in a fire. I was on the verge of death when she had rushed in, heedless of her own safety. Consider this my final repayment. As I was making the soup, Andrew sidled up to me. "Damian, you know why Vivian won't let you touch her?" he sneered. "I have a… special condition. I have to be kept completely 'clean.' She says you're too dirty. If she touched you, I might have an allergic reaction." I didn't bother to reply. It was pathetic, and laughable. He then emptied a bottle of rubbing alcohol onto the gas stove. The flames roared to life, licking at my arm. The pain was excruciating. And Andrew, the instigator, screamed as if he were the one who had been terrified. Vivian rushed in. Andrew immediately put on a show of remorse. "Vivi, I didn't mean to!" "I just thought the flame was too low, and I wanted to help Damian. I… I didn't think this would happen…" She soothed him instantly. "It's okay, Andrew, don't blame yourself. I know you were just trying to help." My arm was red and blistering, the pain a searing agony. Andrew clutched his stomach, his brow furrowed. "Vivi, my head is hurting again…" Vivian glanced at me, her tone dismissive. "There's burn cream in the cabinet. Take care of it yourself." Then she turned back to Andrew, her voice filled with concern. "He's not feeling well. I'm taking him to the hospital." Two hours later, I received a rare message from Vivian. It was a video of her in a meeting. [Busy. Not coming home tonight.] What she didn't know was that a second before she sent that message, she had been in Andrew's social media feed. It was hard to believe that the woman gently feeding Andrew was the same one who had once been my devoted partner, the same one who was now a pathological liar. I didn't reply. What she didn't know was that we no longer had a home to return to. The next day, on my way to get my burn redressed, I saw them from a distance. Andrew was on one knee in front of the hospital, holding a bouquet of flowers. The wind was strong, and it carried his voice to me. "Vivi," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "let's have this baby, okay?" "Damian has had you for your whole life. I… I just want a child…" So, my wife was pregnant. And the child wasn't mine. And I, her husband, was the last to know. I didn't linger. I hailed a cab and went straight to the airport. As I was going through security, she sent me a text. "Damian, where are you? Did you run away from home again?" "Come back. I need to talk to you about something." "By the way, when are you leaving for London? I can give you a ride." I called my lawyer and asked him to deliver a gift to Vivian for me. "Mr. Sterling," he asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice, "are you sure you want me to deliver the divorce papers and the video of Ms. Archer's… group activities… with Mr. Vance?"
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