While I Was Dying, He Was Texting His Intern

But maybe my expression was too calm, because he let go.

“I'll make dinner.”

I nodded and sat down on the couch.

A few minutes later, Sybilla called out to Bertram.

“Dr. Delgado, do you still have that sanitary pad I left in your bag last time?”

She stuck her tongue out at me playfully.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Delgado. I never carry a purse, so I just keep them in Dr. Delgado's bag. That's the only brand that doesn't give me a reaction.”

But her face was pure smugness.

Bertram pulled one out of the messenger bag I'd bought him and handed it to her.

Then he looked at me, like he wanted to say something.

I closed my eyes and pretended to doze off.

I could feel his gaze lingering on my face for a long time before he finally walked away.

Bertram made four dishes.

Spicy pepper pork, cold spinach salad, celery beef stir-fry, and mushroom soup.

Every single one topped with chopped scallions.

Sybilla, freshly awake and wearing my pajamas, let out a squeal.

“Wow, these are all my favorites! I'm going to stuff myself tonight!”

I didn't touch my chopsticks.

Bertram looked impatient.

“If you're not eating now, don't ask me to cook later when you're hungry.”

My voice carried no emotion at all, just a statement of fact：

“I can't eat scallions.”

The hand holding his chopsticks flinched.

For once, a crack appeared in that stone-cold face.

“Sorry. I forgot. Let me make you something else.”

“Don't bother.”

I picked up my bag.

“You two enjoy dinner. I'm going to stay at Maura's for a few days.”

On my way out I turned to Sybilla：

“Make yourself at home.”

As I went to close the door, Bertram braced his hand against it.

“Do you really have to make such a big deal out of this with a kid?”

“I'll take her home after dinner.”

I didn't answer. My eyes dropped to his hand.

“You're wearing a ring?”

Four years of marriage, and he had never once worn his wedding band.

Because he said his profession made it impractical.

His hand pulled back immediately.

“Sybilla kept insisting we wear matching ones.”

“But they're not couple rings, they're…….”

I cut him off：

“Just asking. You don't need to explain.”

He pressed his lips together and watched me for a moment, his voice going soft.

“Then go rest at Maura's for now. I'll pick you up after work tomorrow night.”

I didn't respond. I walked straight downstairs.

I was leaving anyway.

From now on, whoever he let sleep in the bedroom,

whoever he kept sanitary pads for,

whoever he wore a matching ring with,

none of it had anything to do with me.

The cab passed the jewelry counter where we'd bought our wedding rings years ago. I asked the driver to stop.

I ran my fingers over the ring on my hand,

and for a moment I could see us standing at that very counter seven years ago.

The boy said he didn't like wearing rings, and the girl stormed off in a huff.

Not long after, the boy showed up with the diamond ring she'd been eyeing, down on one knee.

“Will you be my only family? In sickness and in health, never apart.”

My vision blurred, then cleared.

I walked into the store.

“Do you buy back diamond rings?”

……

The next day, Maura went with me to my follow-up appointment.

But my primary doctor was away on a training fellowship,

so I had to book with a different specialist.

I didn't expect him to recognize me.

“Jemima?”

I blinked, then placed his face.

“Hello, Doctor.”

A flicker of warmth crossed his otherwise stern features.

“We met once, at your wedding to Bertram.”

He was Bertram's mentor, one of the top allergy specialists in the country.

Bertram had always said he'd find time to take me to his mentor for a thorough exam.

That "find time" stretched into years.