My Boyfriend Faked Paralysis While I Worked Three Jobs

On Friday night, I made beef stew. It was cheap chuck roast, simmered with carrots and potatoes for three hours. The small apartment smelled warm and rich.

I set the pot on the counter. Demi strolled over in silk pajama shorts and dipped a silver spoon directly into the broth. She chewed slowly, her mouth curling into a pitying smirk.

"Low-maintenance," she said, tapping the spoon against the ceramic bowl. "Actually kind of refreshing. Most guys I know expect flavor, but Soren is just so easy to please."

I held my tongue and reached for the ladle.

Soren wheeled himself up to the counter. He took the bowl from my hand and passed it straight to Demi. Then he looked at me, his eyes heavy with fake concern.

"Demi is trying to help you, Kei," he said softly. "You never take critique well. You should be grateful anyone cares enough to be honest with you."

They sat at the small table and ate every tender piece of meat. When they were done, only cloudy broth, potato skins, and two chunks of fat were left at the bottom of the pot.

I took the pot to the sink.

Behind me, they talked as if I were a lamp in the corner.

"She doesn't talk much, does she?" Demi murmured, leaning into Soren's shoulder.

"Not really," Soren replied. "She just kind of hovers. It's like having a ghost that washes dishes."

Demi giggled. Soren kissed the top of her head.

I turned on the tap. The cold water stung my knuckles, but I didn't flinch. I scraped the leftover gristle into the trash and washed their bowls until they squeaked.

***

By Sunday, Demi stopped pretending to be a guest. She treated the studio like her dressing room.

When I hung my coat by the door, she glanced at my shoes. They were worn sneakers with thin soles.

"God, those are depressing," Demi sighed, filing her long nails on the edge of the mattress. "And your hands, Keilani. They're so cracked. Have you ever heard of lotion? It's like five dollars at the drugstore."

"I drive until two in the morning," I said, putting my keys in the dish. "The wind off the river dries them out."

"Excuses," she said with a dismissive wave. "A woman should never let herself go like that. No wonder Soren gets bored."

On Tuesday morning, I finished a twelve-hour shift at the diner. My lower back throbbed. My apron smelled like old grease and burnt coffee. I climbed the three flights of stairs, carrying a fresh gallon of milk for the apartment.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Demi was lounging propped up on the bed beside Soren. She was laughing at a video on her phone.

My breath caught in my throat.

She was wearing my sweater. It was a cream-colored cashmere blend. It was the only nice piece of clothing I had kept from my past life. I had washed it by hand and folded it in tissue paper at the bottom of my single suitcase.

Now, Demi had the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Chocolate crumbs from a pastry were smeared across the collar.

Demi looked up. Her eyes flicked over my stained diner uniform.

"Oh," she said, her voice dripping with boredom. "You're back. We thought you might finally take the hint."

Soren didn't even look away from the TV screen. "Put the milk away, Kei. You're letting the cold air in."

My hands tightened on the plastic jug until the plastic crinkled.

*Not yet,* I told myself. *Wait for the right moment.*

I put the milk in the mini-fridge. I took off my work shoes. I didn't say a word.

***

That evening, Demi went downstairs to pick up takeout. The door clicked shut.

Soren turned his wheelchair toward me. His face wore a practiced, sorrowful expression. He reached out and touched my arm. His fingers were warm, but they made my skin crawl.

"Sit down, Kei," he said gently. "We need to talk."

I sat on the wooden stool by the counter.

"Look at you," he sighed, shaking his head. "You look exhausted. You're twenty-eight, but you look forty. You don't have any family left. You don't have a career. If I weren't here, you'd be completely alone in this city."

I kept my hands resting flat on my knees. "Is that so?"

"You know it is," he said, leaning in. His voice dropped to an intimate whisper. "The world outside is cruel to plain women. Nobody cares about a girl who works a diner counter. But I stay. Even with my back, even when you're miserable, I stay."

He paused, waiting for me to apologize. I stayed silent.

"Having Demi here is actually a kindness," he continued, smiling like a martyr. "She brings energy. She helps out. I'm being transparent with you because I respect you. You should be thankful a man like me still keeps a roof over your head."

"A roof over my head," I repeated quietly.

"Yes," he said, pleased with himself. "So stop sulking. Be nice to Demi. It's the least you can do."

He wheeled back to the TV.

That night, after the lights went out, I lay on the kitchen floor. The linoleum was freezing against my spine. Across the room, their rhythmic breathing filled the dark.

I pulled the small black notebook and a pen from my pocket.

I used the faint blue glow of the mini-fridge to see. I wrote down the dates. I wrote down the hours I worked to pay his rent. I wrote down every word he had spoken to me at the counter.

Page one. Page two. Page three.

Every lie had a receipt. And soon, I was going to cash them in.