Chapter 3

My calmness seemed to unnerve her more than any argument would have. She pointed a trembling finger at the line, watching me as I signed my name without a single flourish. The ink was black and final.

"You... you really don' t care?" she murmured, almost to herself, as she quickly signed her own name. It was as if she needed me to be heartbroken to validate her decision, to prove that what she was leaving behind had value.

I didn' t answer. I just started clearing the table, scraping the untouched steak and potatoes into the trash. The smell that had felt like home an hour ago now just smelled like waste.

She left for her "early meeting" soon after, leaving me alone in the apartment that was no longer ours. The next day, I started packing her things into boxes. It was a mechanical task, a way to keep my hands busy and my mind empty.

While clearing out the small closet, my hand brushed against a shopping bag tucked away in the back, behind her winter coats. It was from a high-end men' s store downtown, a place I' d only ever walked past.

Inside was a shoebox. I opened it.

A pair of brand-new, black leather dress shoes sat nestled in tissue paper. They were beautiful, the kind of shoes a man in her new world would wear. For a stupid, hopeful second, my heart jumped. Maybe a parting gift? A final, kind gesture?

My own work boots, sitting by the door, were scuffed and cracked, the soles worn thin. I hadn't bought myself a new pair in three years.

I sat on the edge of the bed and slipped one of the new shoes on. It was too big. At least a full size too large. I' m a size ten. These felt like an eleven.

The small, foolish hope died instantly, replaced by a familiar cold dread.

Just then, the door opened. Chloe was back. I hadn' t expected her until evening. She saw me sitting on the bed, the shoebox open, the too-large shoe on my foot.

Her face went pale.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice sharp with panic.

"Found these," I said, my tone neutral. "I was just seeing if they fit."

"Oh." She looked away, her composure crumbling. "Those... those are for a colleague. It was his birthday. But I got the size wrong. He couldn' t wear them." She forced a laugh. "You can have them, I guess. If you want."

The lie was so clumsy, so obvious, it was almost insulting. She couldn' t even look at me as she said it.

I looked down at the expensive shoe on my foot, then at my old, worn-out boots by the door. I thought about the countless times I' d patched them up with glue, trying to make them last just one more season so we could put that money toward the house fund.

I thought about how she knew my shoe size as well as I knew hers.

And in that quiet, suffocating moment, I knew. Those shoes were never meant for me. They were for him. The man from her new world.