After My Husband Called Me a Murderer, I Chose Myself

The nausea from the chemo came in relentless waves. My Koreatown apartment smelled of old dust and cheap lemon cleaner. I sat on my narrow bed, sipping flat ginger ale and waiting for the room to stop spinning. My phone buzzed violently against the thin mattress. I looked at the bright screen. It was Derek Holt, Kolson’s business partner.

I almost didn't answer. Derek was Kolson’s closest friend. But Derek had always been kind to me. I swiped right.

"Selena," Derek said. His voice sounded heavy and tired. "Are you okay?"

"I'm surviving," I said quietly.

Derek sighed. "Kolson just called me. He was frantic. He wanted me to agree with him. He wanted me to say you were just being vindictive. That you left to punish him for Brynlee."

I gripped the plastic bottle. I didn't say anything. My chest felt tight.

"I didn't give it to him," Derek said firmly. "I told him the truth. I told him he’s been so busy with his ex that he hasn't once asked himself why you actually left. I told him flatly—that’s not jealousy, Kolson. That’s a woman who’s done."

A small, hard knot in my chest suddenly loosened. Someone finally saw it. "Thank you, Derek."

"He's looking for you, Selena," Derek warned. "He’s tracking down mutual contacts. He's going through your old credit card statements. He wants to find you."

"Let him," I whispered. "It doesn't matter anymore."

I hung up. The room was too quiet. I felt weak, but I knew I had to eat. My body was fighting a brutal war, and it needed fuel.

Dr. Ramos had texted me earlier. *You need real food. Meet me at the diner in Silver Lake. I'm buying.*

I put on a thick gray sweater. It used to fit perfectly. Now, it hung off my shoulders. My collarbones felt sharp and brittle under the wool. I wrapped a scarf around my neck and drove my old car to Silver Lake.

The night air was cool. The restaurant was a small, quiet place tucked between a bookstore and a closed laundromat. It smelled like roasted garlic and warm bread. I slid into a red vinyl booth in the back.

Carmelo was already there. He wore a plain black sweater. His stethoscope was gone. He looked less like a doctor and more like a human being who actually cared.

He pushed a warm bowl of chicken broth toward me.

"You look terrible," Carmelo said bluntly.

"You really know how to flatter a girl," I replied. My voice was raspy. My throat felt like sandpaper.

Carmelo didn't laugh. His dark eyes watched me carefully. He picked up a spoon and handed it to me. "Eat. Just three bites. Start with that."

I took the spoon. My fingers were stiff and cold. They trembled slightly. Carmelo didn't offer fake sympathy. He didn't look away in pity. He just poured me a glass of water and set it near my hand. His care was quiet. It was steady. It was the exact thing I had spent three years waiting for Kolson to give me.

I took a sip of the broth. It was warm and salty. I forced it down. I took a deep breath. For three years, I thought if I was just quiet enough, good enough, patient enough, he would finally see me. I thought my devotion could rewrite his past. I thought if I made his life perfectly smooth, he would forget Brynlee's sharp edges. But sitting here, feeling my body wage war against itself, I finally understood. You cannot love a man into loving you back.

I was sick. I was weak. But I was finally free. I wasn't waiting for the porch light anymore. I wasn't competing with a ghost from London.

I looked out the large glass window next to our booth. The streetlights cast long, yellow shadows on the pavement.

Then, a black car slammed to a halt at the curb.

It was Kolson.

He stepped out onto the sidewalk. His dark suit was wrinkled. His tie was pulled loose. He looked frantic. He had tracked my phone, or maybe my car. He stared through the glass. His eyes scanned the room and locked onto me.

Then, his gaze shifted. He saw Carmelo.

Carmelo was leaning across the table. He was holding out a paper napkin for me. It was a simple, harmless gesture.

But to Kolson, it was a spark in a powder keg.

I watched Kolson’s face change. The frantic worry vanished instantly. His jaw locked tight. His shoulders stiffened. His eyes darkened with pure, blinding jealousy. He didn't see a sick, dying woman sitting with her oncologist. He saw his property sitting with another man.

He stormed toward the entrance.

"Selena?" Carmelo asked. He noticed my sudden stiffness. He turned his head and followed my gaze to the window.

The bell above the restaurant door chimed violently. The heavy glass door slammed shut against the brick wall. A few diners jumped in their seats.

Kolson marched down the narrow aisle. His heavy footsteps echoed on the checkered floor. His fists were balled tight at his sides. The air around him felt thick and dangerous.

He stopped right at the edge of our booth. He didn't look at my pale, sunken face. He didn't notice how my sweater hung off my frail shoulders. He glared straight down at Carmelo.

"Get up," Kolson growled. His voice was low, cold, and lethal.

Carmelo didn't flinch. He slowly placed his hands flat on the table. He looked up at Kolson with absolute, unhidden disgust.

"Kolson," I said softly.

Kolson snapped his head toward me. His eyes were burning with rage. He looked at me like I was a stranger. "You packed your bags and killed my child for this?" he hissed. He pointed a shaking finger at Carmelo. "For him?"

I stared back at him. My heart didn't race. I didn't feel the urge to cry. The girl who used to cry over his late nights was dead. I just felt a profound, overwhelming exhaustion.

"You have no idea what you're looking at," I whispered.