All I Gave, All Betrayal

The rain in Seattle blurred my windshield into a smear of gray, pounding against the glass in a relentless rhythm. I gripped the steering wheel, checking the digital clock on the dashboard. Five p.m.

Julian’s surprise birthday party started at six. I had his custom cake sitting on the passenger seat, carefully buckled in so the delicate frosting wouldn't smudge. I had spent three weeks coordinating with his friends, his colleagues, and his difficult family. I wanted everything to be perfect.

Then, tires screeched.

A massive freight truck hydroplaned across the center divide. The sound of metal crushing metal was deafening. Glass shattered into a million flying diamonds, tearing through the air.

I didn't feel any pain. One second I was bracing for impact, clutching the steering wheel, and the next, I was staring down at my own crushed body inside the ruined sedan. My soul detached from my flesh, light and untethered.

I floated back to our apartment. I wanted to see him one last time. I wanted to feel his presence before I faded into whatever came next.

The penthouse was completely dark. No party guests. No balloons. I hovered near the entryway, confused by the silence.

The lock clicked.

The heavy oak door swung inward.

Julian stepped inside. He wasn't alone.

He had his arm wrapped tightly around Celeste’s waist. She stumbled over the threshold, her head lolling against his black button-down shirt. Her pale, delicate face flushed bright red.

"Julian," she mumbled, her words slurring together.

"Keep your feet under you," he said, his voice low.

"Everything is spinning."

"I know. Just a few more steps."

She grabbed a fistful of his shirt, anchoring herself like a parasite. "You left your own birthday dinner for me."

"You called," he answered simply.

"I drank too much."

"I can see that."

"Are you mad?"

"No."

I hovered near the ceiling, my ghostly chest tight. A toxic, bitter realization settled over me. Three years. I spent three years begging for scraps of his attention. If I had a bad day at work, he told me to grow up. If I cried during an argument, he walked out the front door and didn't come back until morning.

I thought he was just cold. I thought he was incapable of showing affection.

But looking at him now, I realized the truth. He wasn't incapable of love. He just didn't love me.

"My head hurts," Celeste complained, rubbing her temples.

"I told you not to mix tequila and wine," Julian said.

"You weren't there to stop me."

"I'm here now."

"You always come when I call."

"Always."

"Even when Scarlett tells you no?"

"Scarlett doesn't tell me what to do."

"I'm going to be sick," Celeste whimpered.

"No, you aren't," Julian said. He hooked his other arm under her knees and lifted her entirely off the floor. "Breathe through your nose."

"I ruin everything."

"You don't ruin anything. Stop talking."

"You were supposed to be eating cake."

"I hate cake."

"Scarlett loves cake."

"Scarlett isn't here."

He carried her toward the hallway. The dim glow of the sconce illuminated his face. His jaw was set, tight with a fierce, protective restraint. It was a tenderness so profound it made me sick.

"Put me down," Celeste whined, kicking her legs weakly. "I want to sit right here."

"You need water."

"No. Here." She wriggled in his grip.

Julian sighed, a soft, yielding sound I had never heard before. "Fine."

He lowered her toward the plush rug in the corner of the foyer. But my prized photography stand was in the way. It held a framed, original print I bought at an auction in Paris. It was the first piece of art I ever purchased with my own money. I loved that photograph. Julian knew exactly how much it meant to me.

He didn't even hesitate.

Julian kicked the metal stand with the toe of his leather shoe. It tipped over, crashing into the corner. The glass frame shattered against the baseboard, sending shards flying across the hardwood floor.

"Oops," Celeste giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Ignore it," Julian said. He guided her down onto the rug, making sure her back rested perfectly against the smooth wall.

"Did I break Scarlett's stuff?" she asked, her eyelids drooping as she looked at the wreckage.

"I broke it. Don't worry about it."

"She's going to yell at you."

"Let her try."

A dry, hollow laugh bubbled up in my non-existent throat.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just laughed at my own stupidity.

I died rushing home to celebrate a man who threw away three years of my devotion without a second thought.

I died carrying his birthday cake, and in return, he didn't hesitate to shatter the only piece of art I treasured just to make room for another woman's drunken tears.