Chapter 2: Chapter 2
It was a prenatal report. Patient name: Krista Wright.
The conception date was a sledgehammer to the gut.
Two months pregnant.
So he’d never planned on asking me. He’d just made the decision himself.
What was this whole two-week performance about? Was he trying to soothe his own pathetic conscience? What the hell was I to him?
I slumped to the floor, feeling like an icy hand was squeezing my heart, cutting off my breath.
No wonder he was grinning like an idiot when he ran out the door.
He already knew. They’d done it. Krista was pregnant.
He was probably with her right now, celebrating their sordid little victory.
I covered my eyes with my hands, but the image of the report was seared onto the back of my eyelids.
The man I’d loved for almost twenty years was about to be a father. To another woman’s child.
Just two months ago, he had tearfully accepted my proposal. I’d booked the church. I’d picked out the Vera Wang dress.
I used to fantasize about him sweeping me up in his strong arms, carrying me over the threshold. Now, those fantasies had curdled into a bitter taste in my throat.
My phone vibrated, snapping me back to reality. I answered numbly.
“Sherry!” It was my best friend, Emma. “Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center called again! Dr. Evans said if you say yes, you can name your position and your salary!”
Six months ago, Dr. Evans had personally invited me to join his team. But it meant moving to Seattle, a full-time commitment.
I’d turned him down. The thought of losing Albert was scarier than missing a chance to change the world of biomedicine.
“They’re even willing to give you special privileges!” Emma rushed on. “You could come back to Portland to see Albert all the time—”
Albert.
The name tasted like blood in my mouth. My eyes landed on my phone’s calendar.
August 20th. The date I’d circled with a heart now mocked me.
Fifteen days until my wedding.
Fifteen days until my freedom.
“I’ll take the job,” I said, cutting her off. My voice was surprisingly steady. “No special privileges needed. I’m all in.”
“But… your honeymoon…”
“Tell them I’ll start on the twentieth.”
Silence on the other end. Then, a soft click. Emma had hung up. She was smart enough not to ask why I’d chosen my wedding day to start a new life.
I traced the red circle on my calendar with my finger.
Fifteen days to bury a love that had haunted me for about two decades.
In fifteen days, I would disappear into Seattle—and Albert Hayes would become the punchline of a very bad joke.
