Page 78 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
Five Words
Claire
The apartment smelled faintly of garlic and rosemary, the way it always did when he was the one cooking. Only tonight, the scent didn’t come from him. It came from me, and it didn’t smell right.
I’d tried to make something simple, pasta with roasted vegetables, because it felt less like “making a meal for him” and more like “just dinner.” Still, I’d set out two plates, two forks, two glasses. Old habit now.
Earlier, I had heard the familiar hum of Liam’s voice through the wall. Low, steady, talking to himself as he reviewed film in the study, followed by the scrape of his chair. All the sounds I’d gotten used to at night.
Then came the sharp thud of the apartment door closing. Not angry, not quite a slam, but loud enough to make me sit up straighter. I waited for the lock to click back into place, forhim to return with groceries or a bottle of wine, but the silence stretched on.
By the time the clock hit 5:30, my shoulders tightened out of habit, waiting for the first crackle of a pan heating on the stove. Nothing. No knife against the cutting board. No steady rhythm of him chopping herbs. The kitchen stayed dark and still.
I pulled my hair back, rolled up my sleeves, and went to start dinner myself. The sauce on the stove simmered gently. I stirred once, then again, then again—trying to remember if I’d already added salt.
I opened a cabinet. Closed it. Checked the oven timer, even though nothing was inside. And when I glanced up at the clock again, twenty minutes had passed. I was still alone.
The clock on the stove ticked past seven. Only one of us was sitting at the table getting ready to eat.
By now, Liam would be coming back to the living room to read, hair still damp from the shower, shoulders slumped but eyes catching mine like it was a relief to see me waiting. That rhythm had become its own comfort. But tonight the chair across from me stayed empty. The food steamed in silence, the vegetables already losing their crispness.
I made his plate anyway. Scooped the pasta neatly into the bowl he usually grabbed, added a sprinkle of cheese he pretended not to care about. I left it on the counter. Covered it with a plate to keep it warm.
He’s just running late. Meetings. Film review. Something.
At seven fifteen, my phone buzzed.
Won’t be home for dinner
Five words. No apology, no explanation. Just enough to make the walls feel closer.
The words flickered on the screen, flat and impersonal. I read them twice, then once more. I stared at my phone until it dimmed, my thumb hovering as if I might type something back.
But what was there to say?Okay.No problem.Both felt like lies. I set the phone face-down and looked at the table. His glass of water sat untouched, catching the light from the overhead lamp like it was mocking me.
I wrapped his plate and stuck it in the fridge.
I forced myself to sit. To eat. To pretend this wasn’t anything more than a schedule conflict. But the first bite stuck in my throat, the taste flat and wrong. My fork scraped against the plate, the sound too loud in the quiet room. Each bite was an effort.
For weeks, meals had been where we found each other, his careful cooking, my laughter at his commentary, the little rituals that made this apartment feel less like a stopover and more like a home. Now it was just me and the clink of silverware.
I pushed food around my plate, appetite gone. Every creak in the walls made me look toward the door, stupidly hoping I’d see him walk in despite the text. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t get a full breath.
Finally, I stood, gathering my plate and fork. The fork slipped from my hand and hit the sink with a clang that echoed, startling in the stillness. My hands shook as I rinsed them, too rough, water splashing against the counter. I shoved my plate into the dishwasher, the movement sharp, almost violent.
The kitchen felt colder without him in it.
I leaned both palms against the counter and bowed my head, pressing my lips together hard to keep them from trembling. This shouldn’t matter.
He hadn’t promised me dinners. He hadn’t promised me anything.
I sat so still the air seemed to push back. I wrapped my arms around my middle, but the ache had already slipped beneath my skin.
The rosemary I’d sprinkled too heavily on the vegetables clung to the air, sharp and lingering. I sank into a chair again, clutching the edge of the table as if bracing against an impact.
He wasn’t here. He chose not to be here.
Maybe he’d stopped wanting to.
