At exactly eight o'clock, she called her GP. And wonder of all wonders, the receptionist offered a mid-morning slot.
She waited in the kitchen until she heard Ronin's footsteps. When he entered, she kept her gaze fixed on the coffee mug inher hand, ignoring him as if he were part of the wallpaper. She stepped past him and went into the garden.
The tulips had been glorious this spring. Now winter was coming, and all her plants were resting, the flowerbeds stripped back to bare soil. She sat on the garden bench she'd bought second-hand online and refurbished herself. The cold and wet seeped through her pyjamas, onto her butt and the back of her thighs.
Her mother was gone, and she had no siblings. Her friends had drifted away over the years, the only regular company she kept were the football mums and dads, and the occasional chat with parents from David's school. She was an island now, and she needed a lifeboat.
Her hand slipped into her pocket, brushing the debit card she had slipped in there and the ring.
Through the kitchen window, she heard Ronin moving about, then the sound of the front door opening. He'd mentioned a meeting and a business trip to Brussels later in the week. He had asked if she wanted him to cancel, but she had pretended she hadn't heard. Too little, too late.
David must have gone off to school. She hadn't bothered with his breakfast; he could have cereal.
When the roar of Ronin's car faded, she went back inside and spent the next half-hour moving her everyday clothes and essentials into the guest room. The small stack of things she chose to keep barely filled a corner of the bed. A few pieces of jewellery, inherited when her mother died, lay in a velvet pouch. Those, she would keep.
As she reached for the top shelf of the closet, her fingers brushed against something flat and dusty. A plain biscuit tin, tucked so far back it was almost hidden. She remembered finding it years ago while tidying Ronin's things, curiosity winning out as she slid it down and pried open the lid.
Inside were old letters, neatly folded and tied with a ribbon gone pale with time. They were addressed to him from Mia—his high school sweetheart, who had followed him into university. In their second year, Mia had broken his heart, leaving him for a rugby star on campus.
Back then, she had read every page, the ink a mix of teasing banter, shared memories and declarations so raw they had made her chest ache. There had been photographs too—one of Mia perched on Ronin's lap, both of them mid-laughter, the sort of forever joy captured forever in a moment. There had been other pictures in the box—friends, photos of student parties, fragments of a life before her.
She had asked him about it at the time, and he'd said he'd forgotten the box was even there. He'd offered awkwardly to throw it away, but she'd tried to act cool and told him it was fine, that it was a part of his past. Sometimes you say something and mean something else entirely, expecting your partner to pick it up. Ronin proved oblivious.
Now, holding the memory of that discovery, she slid the box back into its place without opening it. Some ghosts didn't need to be disturbed twice. But she knew that Ronin took that box of memories out from time to time. And every time he reminisced about the one that got away, it was a knife through her heart.
She didn't have a plan. All she knew was, even breathing the same air as Ronin repulsed her. She picked up her handbag and stepped through the front door. Her car, also in his name, like everything else, waited in the driveway. She shut the door with uncharacteristic violence and she drove to the GP.
Dr. Farah, her GP, had seen her before for what she believed were her perimenopausal symptoms. She had kind, deep brown eyes that made you want to lay your burdens on her shoulder and forget there were others in the waiting room, if just for a little while.
"So, Sage," she began gently, "what brings you in today?"
Sage couldn't meet her eyes as her gaze traced the edge of the desk. "I need a full STI panel."
There was a startled pause. "All right... May I know why?"
"My partner..." Sage swallowed, still not looking up. "He's been with someone else." She forced the words out evenly. "For over a year."
Dr. Farah's expression softened with sympathy which made her look away. "I see. And you're worried about—"
"Exposure, yes." Sage's voice stayed flat, as if it belonged to someone else. "She is married, too. And I don't know who else he's put me at risk from."
Dr. Farah nodded slowly, tapping notes into the computer. "We can do the tests today, and I'll bring you in for the results as soon as they come back."
Sage nodded, mechanically. "Thank you. May I have them over the phone ,please?" She took a deep breath. "We've been together for twenty years. We have a son. I—" She broke off, blinking rapidly. "I'm trying not to... I don't have a plan. You see, we are not married. I don't know if I should be talking about this."
Dr. Farah's chair creaked as she leaned forward. "It's all right. You're safe here."
"I keep thinking..." Sage said, her voice a thin thread, "about how stupid I must've looked to them. He bought me this huge ring years ago, said it was so other men would keep away, and the whole time..." Her lips trembled. "The whole time..." She pressed her fingers to her mouth, but the tears pushed through, anyway.
Dr. Farah passed her a tissue. "Sage, have you got any support? Someone to talk to? Your mum or a friend?"
She shook her head. "My mum's gone. And…we weren’t close. No siblings. My friends drifted away because I was so busymaking sure that bastard was comfortable…Sorry…so sorry, I didn’t mean to swear. I haven't held down a job for years. And my son..." She stopped, staring at the desk. "I just feel like I want to sleep and never get up again. I don't know how I can keep going."
Dr. Farah's brows drew together. "Sage, there is always a way. Let me help you. I'd like you to come back and see me again soon—this week, if possible. We can talk about support and counselling. You don't have to carry this alone."
Sage nodded, tucking the tissue into her sleeve, still unable to meet the doctor's eyes. They talked for a while about what she wanted to do and about having suicidal thoughts. Sage refused any medication, promising to get help if she needed it.
Dr. Farah reached across the desk, her musical slightly accented voice soothing her in ways Sage couldn’t explain. "We'll do a full STI panel and I'll call you with the results. I’d like to check your hormone levels and make sure you are not anaemic with the heavy periods you have been having."
