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The application is clear—it has “Approved for Treatment” stamped right across it.
He has another life. Children with this woman. A house outside of town. A whole other family. No wonder he seemed so natural around the twins.
No wonder he seemed too good to be true.
Tears spring to my eyes. I collapse onto the kitchen chair, staring blankly at the folder, as those tears fully form and slide down my cheeks.
I’m still sitting there when the elevator opens hours later. Startled, I inhale sharply, sniffing, and slam the folder shut, throw it back on top of the fridge, then add the mail on top of it, a haphazard, messy pile.
“Honey, I’m home,” Cassius sings from the elevator, joking, and it almost sends a whole new rush of tears down my face. I manage to hold it in, only barely, by digging my nails into my palms.
He sticks his head into the kitchen a moment later. “What’d I miss?” he asks, his voice lighthearted.
I stand with my back to him, unable to turn around. When he sees my face, he’ll know. This whole beautiful fantasy world will collapse around us. He’ll realize I’ve found out, he’ll throw me out. And fuck, this job.
I need this job. I need the money.
But I can’t put the kids through this. Through the pain of a breakup. They’re still young enough that they won’t remember this, thank god, if I can put him off now… Get out of this while there’s still time.
“Manila?” He’s walking toward me, concern in his tone again. “What are you doing?” He rests his hands on my shoulders and leans in to kiss my cheek.
“Nothing,” I say, my voice strangled. Tight. “Just cleaning.”
But he hears the sorrow in it. Spins me around before I can react, and of course, my face is still streaked with leftover tears, my eyes still red from crying. “Manila. Something’s happened. Tell me.”
I shake my head, unable to speak. Unable to voice the truth.
Unable to call him a liar. Just like every other man who’s ever broken my heart.
“What’s going on? You can talk to me, Manila. You can trust me.”
“Can I?” I finally snap. I push his hands off my shoulders, stride away from him. “I’m an idiot.”
Now he’s frowning, concerned and confused at once. “You are far from an idiot, Manila.”
“Then why do I keep falling for this?” I fling my arms wide, angry. “Why do I think that I can be happy? Why did I believe this could work? Every relationship I’ve ever gotten myself into is doomed. Why on earth would this one be any different?” I’ve raised my voice; I’m shouting now, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
Cassius stares at me, wide-eyed, shocked. “What are you talking about?”
But I can’t do this. I can’t listen to his explanations, his denials, his excuses. I can’t watch him turn into the same man as all my exes, a liar and a cheat.
The babies have woken up, startled by my shouts, no doubt. They howl from their room, and those cries echo the pain in my heart. I push past him, storm out of the kitchen and scoop them up. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m packing them into their stroller.
“Manila, please, talk to me. What’s going on? Where is this coming from?”
“I think you can figure that out yourself,” I snap.
His eyes go cold. “If you won’t let me in, I can’t help you.”
“I don’t need your help,” I spit. “I don’t need anybody’s help. I can do this on my own—I always have.”
It barely takes me ten minutes to pack the essentials. I’ve gotten used to this, over the years. I’m practiced at running. I push the stroller out of the apartment, the babies’ travel bag over my shoulder. The rest of it, the clothes he bought me, the toys he bought them, we can do without all of that. We don’t need his charity, any more than we needed him to support us.
We can do just fine on our own.
Anger replaces sorrow for the moment. Just for long enough to get me through this, and I’m grateful for it.
He tries to stop me one last time at the elevator bank. Curls his hand around my wrist and looks into my eyes, pleading. “Talk to me about this, please! What happened?”
“I fell for you,” I say. “That’s what happened.”
Then the elevator arrives. He’s still standing there, eyes wide, mouth open in shock, when I step into it and let the doors swing shut behind me.
11
Three missed calls. All since I got home last night. I stare at my cracked cell phone screen from the discomfort of my tiny, lumpy bed. It used to be fine, until I spent a few weeks sleeping on the comfortable, heavenly bed in Cassius’s room.
My apartment used to feel warm enough, too, until I found myself missing the familiar sensation of his arm around my waist, his body snuggled up against mine.
