Too Late, Madam: Your Husband Quit

The morning air on the Ivy League campus was crisp, smelling of old leaves and privilege. Christopher pulled the hood of his gray sweatshirt up. It was a cheap Fruit of the Loom hoodie, pillowy and slightly faded-the uniform of the invisible.

He stood outside the main library, holding a cardboard carrier with four Starbucks cups.

His hands burned. The cups were hot. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"There he is," a voice chirped.

Brielle Harris came down the stone steps. She was surrounded by her court-three girls who looked like clones of her, all blonde hair and Lululemon leggings.

Brielle looked perfect. Not a hair out of place, her makeup subtle but expensive. She stopped in front of him and didn't even look at his face. She just reached for the cup marked B.

"Oat milk, two pumps sugar-free vanilla, extra hot?" she asked.

"Yes, Brielle," Christopher said, forcing a dopey smile onto his face. "Just how you like it."

One of the clones, a girl named Madison, giggled. "God, Brielle, he's like a lost puppy. Does he follow you everywhere?"

Brielle took a sip, her blue eyes darting to Christopher with a mix of annoyance and something else-ownership.

"My mom hired him," Brielle sighed dramatically, waving a hand. "Some sort of 'safety escort' program for the semester. It's so cringe. She thinks I can't handle myself."

She didn't know the specifics of the contract, only that he was paid to be there. She treated him like an embarrassing accessory she was forced to wear.

"Come on," Brielle commanded.

They walked toward the lecture hall. Christopher trailed five paces behind, the designated distance for a servant.

They entered the large amphitheater. It was packed. Brielle and her friends marched to the middle row. Christopher headed for the back, near the door.

As he walked up the aisle, a leg shot out.

It was Preston Hayes. Captain of the lacrosse team. His father owned half of Connecticut.

Christopher saw the leg. His reflexes, honed by years of dodging foster brothers and angry drunks, screamed at him to step over it.

But the role required him to fall.

Christopher caught his toe on Preston's sneaker. He pitched forward.

He twisted his body in mid-air. Not to save himself, but to save the coffee carrier. He hit the floor hard. His knees slammed into the thin carpet. His elbow cracked against the leg of a desk.

But the coffees didn't spill.

The room erupted in laughter.

"Watch it, loser!" Preston jeered. "Tripping over your own feet?"

Christopher scrambled up, clutching the coffees. "Sorry! I'm sorry!"

He looked frantic. His face turned red.

Brielle turned around in her seat. Her eyes narrowed. She looked at Christopher, then at Preston.

"Preston," Brielle's voice cut through the laughter. "Shut up."

The room went quiet.

"Aww, defending your pet?" Preston smirked.

"He's holding my coffee," Brielle said coldly. "And that coffee costs more than your GPA. If he spills it, you're licking it up."

Preston's smirk vanished. He muttered something and turned back to his phone.

Brielle looked at Christopher. For a second, her mask slipped. She saw the dust on his knees. She saw the way he was cradling the cardboard carrier like it was a baby.

"Sit down, Chris," she said, her voice softer than usual. "Don't be an idiot."

"Yes. Thanks, Brielle."

Christopher scuttled to the back corner and sat down. He opened his notebook.

The professor started talking about Macroeconomics. Christopher ignored him. He took a pen and began to draw on the lined paper.

He didn't take notes. He drew lines. Jagged, chaotic lines. He pressed the pen down until the paper tore. It looked like scribbles to anyone else, a mess of ink and frustration. It wasn't music. It was noise. The sound of the static in his head.

He slashed the pen across the page, creating a grid of black bars.

From the middle row, Brielle glanced back. She saw him scribbling frantically.

He's taking notes for me, she thought. He really is trying.

She felt a strange pang in her chest. Guilt? No, Harris women didn't feel guilt. Annoyance? Maybe.

The lecture ended. Christopher met her at the door.

"Here," he said, handing her the notebook. "I... I tried to get everything down."

He had flipped the page, hiding the chaotic drawings. The top page was just gibberish notes he had scribbled in the last thirty seconds.

"Thanks," Brielle said. She looked at his knee. The jeans were torn. There was a scrape with a bead of blood. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing," Christopher said.

"Don't bleed on my seats," she said, but she reached into her bag and pulled out a Hello Kitty band-aid. She shoved it into his chest. "Fix it."

Christopher took the band-aid. He looked at it, then at her.

"Thank you, Brielle."

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Hillary: Where are you? Send location.

Christopher felt a cold drop of sweat slide down his back.

He typed back: Library. Studying. Trying to be better for you.

He hit send.

He was juggling chainsaws. And sooner or later, he was going to lose a hand.