Page 3 of The Wrong Husband
He throws a bitter look over his shoulder. “Why do you care?” His voice is a whip. “You’d probably be relieved if I crash and die.”
“Don’t say that!” I shout, throwing my hands up in frustration. “Don’t you dare say that. Come back. Please. Let’s just talk?—”
But he’s already unlocking the padlock, already throwing one leg over the frame. No helmet. No hesitation. No goodbyes.
And then—he’s gone.
I stand there, frozen, as the sound of his wheels fades.
My hands fall uselessly to my sides. I drag my fingers through my hair, tugging it loose from its messy bun so it spills down around my shoulders in a heavy curtain.
Every conversation we have is a battlefield, and I don’t even know what we’re fighting for anymore.
Thankfully, we no longer share a bed. He moved into the guest room, so our schedules at the hospital wouldn’t disturb each other. It made sense at the time.
Now, it feels like foreshadowing.
I swipe at the moisture that clings to my cheeks, but the tears keep coming. I’ll give myself this time to get a handle on the open wound that is my life.Two minutes.
I let the tears flow. When the choking sensation in my throat eases somewhat, I take deep breaths.
Then spin around and march into the kitchen. I splash water on my face, snatch a dish towel to wipe at my face, then toss it aside. I throw my hair into a messy bun and pull myself together. Because I don’t have time to fall apart.
Reaching my room, I step into my favorite pair of sneakers. I prefer to buy a new pair of footwear only when the previous ones wear out. It’s a game I play with myself—tracking how long each pair lasts and trying to get the next one to wear out faster. These are almost there.
I grab my oversized backpack on my way out, pulling out my phone as I walk down the short path to the sidewalk, then stop. A prickling at the nape of my neck makes me pause.
I look up and down the tree-lined street. It’s quiet, except for the chirping of the birds. It’s only 6:30 a.m. I step onto the sidewalk.
I used to love walking to work. The quiet. The early morning air. The way the sunlight trickles through the branches of the trees that line the pavement like sentinels. It made me feel grounded—safe, even. At least, it used to—until a few days ago, when I first had this sensation of being watched.
I glance over my shoulder. Cars line both sides of the narrow street—compact hatchbacks, a weathered SUV, the silver antique that always leaks oil. And then there’s that white van.Again.
I only noticed it because I like to watch the magpies feeding their young in the chestnut tree at the top of the street, and the van is parked in front of it.
Same position. Same smudged windscreen. With the name of a building services company painted onto the side.
Do workmen even show up before dawn?
I don’t know my neighbors well enough to ask who’s having what done to their kitchen or loft. But that van’s been here for over a week—maybe longer.
I roll my weight from foot to foot.
It’s probably nothing. Just another vehicle taking up space on an already cramped road.
I shake off the feeling of disquiet, hook my AirPods into my ears, and flick on the medical podcast I’ve been listening to.
I get immersed in it, and before long I’m crossing at the light in front of the hospital. The employees’ entrance is separate from the main one, tucked away on a quieter side street.
A small knot of people has gathered beneath one of the trees lining the sidewalk. They’re looking up at the branches of the tree.
I reach them just as one of them cries out, “She’s going to fall.”
I look up to find a small gray tabby, clinging to a branch, her body trembling with effort. She lets out a desperate yowl, claws scrabbling against the bark as the branch sways beneath her weight.
“Someone needs to rescue that cat.” A man in jogging shorts and T-shirt nods sagely.
The same woman who’d cried out earlier clasps her hands together. “Mina, please, come down kitty.”
