Happy to Take Your Leftovers

My husband Blake's "soulmate," Scarlett, claimed the Persian silk rug she’d sent me would bring good luck to our home.

He laid it on the stairs himself, and the slick silk sent me tumbling. I lost our child in the fall.

I called him from the emergency room. He hung up on me.

After the surgery, I scrolled through Scarlett's Instagram and saw a video of Blake on one knee, presenting her with the keys to a new design studio.

The caption read: "He said I'm his North Star! He really built a starry sky for me!"

At the studio's grand opening, Scarlett shimmered in the latest haute couture. I stood outside, unable to get through the door, wearing an old dress she’d publicly mocked online.

With a shard of ice where my heart used to be, I called my lawyer, Marcus. "Are the divorce papers ready?"

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1

A week after my discharge from the hospital, my husband Blake finally came home.

He looked smug, though his eyes held a furtive glint.

I calmly counted out the pills the doctor had prescribed, not bothering to ask where he’d been for the last week.

"Camille, the studio project I mentioned before has finally launched!" he announced cheerfully, as if nothing had happened.

"Trust me, everything's going to be fine. I've just been slammed with this project, so I couldn't call. You're not mad, are you?"

I couldn't even muster a fake smile. My mouth opened, but no words came out.

This wasn't the first time. He always had some grandiose excuse to dismiss whatever I had to say.

Seeing my lack of reaction, he came toward me, opening his arms for a hug. I stood up, stepping away from his touch.

I said quietly, my voice flat, "I'm not angry. But right now, I need you to not touch me."

Blake's hands froze in mid-air. He looked at me in disbelief.

He let out a dry laugh. "Camille, I said I was sorry. Don't be like this, okay? Sulking doesn't suit you."

I didn't respond.

Look at him. So condescending, so arrogant, even when he was pretending to make amends.

A pity it took me this long to see it.

"Guess what I brought you!" he chirped, grabbing an insulated box with the logo of a top-tier restaurant from beside the door.

"Fresh oysters, flown in today. They're incredible. I brought them back especially for you," he said, rubbing his hands together as he opened the box. "They're your favorite. Come on, have a taste."

I stood perfectly still.

A crushing wave of sorrow washed over me, pinning me to the spot.

As I watched his ridiculous one-man show, the ghost of a smile touched my lips.

"Blake, we've been married for seven years. I have a severe shellfish allergy. I've never touched it in my life. What on earth gave you the idea it was my favorite?"

Blake's hand trembled, and the oyster knife clattered to the floor.

A complicated look crossed his face—not guilt, but the raw irritation of being caught in a lie, as if my refusal to play along had ruined his performance.

"Sorry, Camille. I've been so swamped, I must have misremembered," he said.

He hadn't forgotten. Oysters were Scarlett's favorite. He'd just confused me with her—again.

Blake tried to salvage the situation by pulling out another dust bag. He handed it to me with a grin. "This is the real surprise. Open it."

I glanced at the logo. It was a luxury brand, but I couldn't guess what was inside.

When I finally pulled out the handbag, my eyes instantly stung with tears.

This limited-edition handbag was the exact one Scarlett had flaunted on Instagram this morning.

It was a prop she’d used in a photo shoot with her new sports car.

In other words, he was pawning off a handbag Scarlett had tossed aside, calling it "last season's color," and expecting me to be grateful for it.

I remembered Scarlett’s caption perfectly.

"When a new love comes along, the old one is just charity for someone in need. There's always someone happy to take my leftovers."

Apparently, I was that someone in need.

And I finally understood why Blake's gifts were always so thoughtless. The things I had once treasured were now the sledgehammers shattering my illusions.

"What's wrong, Camille? Are you really crying with joy over a handbag?" he asked.

I sniffled and pushed the handbag back into its dust bag. "Yes, it is."

Blake actually thought I was overjoyed, moved by his pathetic little gesture.

"By the way, you called me so many times. Did something happen?"

I turned away, a bone-deep chill settling over me. "It's nothing now."

So he knew. He knew something had happened.

But what did it matter? He wasn't worried about me. He was just annoyed I'd interrupted his good time with the woman he actually loved.

Just like when they were cuddling on the snowy mountains of Aspen, or kissing under a confession projected on a skyscraper.

Even taking the time to placate me felt like a chore to him. I stood up and headed for the bedroom.

Blake called after me, but then his phone rang.

He ignored the call, turning away guiltily.

"Urgent project meeting. I have to go."

He hurried out of the house, not even noticing my pale face or the pile of pill bottles on the nightstand.

The moment the door clicked shut, I picked up my phone and called Marcus.

"Start the proceedings. I want a divorce."