She Walked Out of His Shadow

“Sure.”

At the restaurant, Carter handed the menu to Pamela, and the two of them leaned in over it together.

I sat on the other side.

When the food came out, it was all swimming in red chili oil.

Carter picked up a piece of fish, worked the bones out of it, and set it in Pamela's bowl.

“Try it. The chef here really knows what he's doing.”

Pamela took a bite, and her eyes lit up.

“It's so good. Carter, you have to eat too.”

Carter.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd called him anything that warm.

I kept my head down, picking the greens out of my plain noodle soup.

The noodles had already clumped together into a soggy knot I couldn't break apart no matter how I stirred.

“Violet, how come you're not eating?”

one of the others asked, offhand.

Carter turned his head, looked at the untouched noodles, and frowned.

“No appetite again. When are you going to get over this picky-eater thing?”

Pamela set down her chopsticks and looked at me.

“Violet, are you upset with me? I'm sorry. I didn't know you can't handle any spice at all.”

“I'll step out. You order a few milder dishes.”

“Sit down,” Carter said, pressing his hand over Pamela's, his tone stiff.

“Excuse me, can we add a mild soup too?”

Then he looked at me.

“And quit sitting there with that face. Everyone's here.”

A dull ache twisted through my stomach.

I lifted my eyes to him, something lodged in my throat.

“Carter, do you even remember why I can't eat spicy food?”

He froze for a second.

I didn't wait for his answer. I put my chopsticks down.

“Never mind. I'm full. Enjoy the rest.”

Back home, the living room was pitch dark.

I felt my way to the couch and sat down.

The cramping in my stomach was sharp now. I dug out my stomach pills and swallowed them dry.

The bitter taste spread through my throat.

One in the morning.

Carter walked in reeking of barbecue.

He flicked on the light without thinking.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” He changed his shoes, came over to the couch, and looked at me.

I said nothing.

He sighed, sat down beside me, and reached up to tug his tie loose.

“Still mad about tonight.”

“Pamela's new to the industry. As someone more senior, it's only right that I look out for her a little. What's wrong with that?”

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

“Carter, tomorrow is our fourth anniversary.”

He stalled for a beat, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.

“I know. I booked the restaurant ages ago. I'll keep tomorrow night free for you.”

“I'm exhausted today. I'm going to shower, and I still have to push Pamela's photo set out.”

With that, he stood and walked straight into the bathroom.

The water started running.

I looked at the sketchbook he'd tossed aside.

Page after page, packed edge to edge, all of it Pamela's profile and the line of her back.

Beside every sketch, notes on settings and adjustments.

My own photos lived forever in a folder labeled "everyday."

The next afternoon.

I left work early, bought groceries, and picked up the cake.

He'd said he booked a restaurant, but I knew how slammed he'd been these past days, running nonstop. He was bound to forget.

Sure enough, at seven that evening,

a voice message came in from Carter.

“Violet, I'm sorry. Something went wrong with the set on Pamela's shoot, and I can't get away.”

“I canceled the restaurant reservation. Just fix yourself something to eat. I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise.”

I listened to the whole thing in silence and didn't reply.

I sat at the table and waited a long time.

The food went from steaming hot to a cold film of grease congealed on top.

I looked at the "Happy 4th Anniversary" on the cake, and all at once I remembered that this time last year, I was still secretly browsing wedding-ring designs.