Sophie looks wrecked, absolutely wrecked.
I've never seen that look on her face, and I'm the one who put it there. Her mouth parts, and her eyes meet mine directly, any softness left inside of her burning away.
"You had sex with Elise for two months while you were also holding my hand through doctor's appointments, holding me as I cried at night, wiping my tears, and telling me that we wouldget through this together. That's what you said—together!" She points at me and spits, "You fucking liar."
"I know!" The words explode from my chest, full of shame and desperation. "I know what I said, I'm so sorry, Sophie, I just couldn't deal with it—"
"No," she cuts me off, holding up her hand, and I snap my mouth shut. Her face shifts from devastation to something else entirely.
Rage.
She takes a deep breath, "You know what, Paul?I'm done.I don't deserve this, and I'm not going to stand here and let you explain to me how me getting cancer made you cheat on me."
"Sophie, I—"
"Nope, your time to talk is done," she hisses through gritted teeth. "I've just realized that my time is kind of valuable now, on account of the fact that I might be running out of it, and I have too much to do to prepare for this battle.Alone,apparently."
The wordalonehits me hard, but that's what I'm doing, right? That's the consequence of my actions. That's what I ultimately wanted. I'm freeing myself from this cancer battle, but in doing so, I'm leaving Sophie alone to fight it herself.
Nausea hits once more and I'm terrified for a second I'm going to throw up in front of her.
The silence feels heavy between us. The only sounds are my heavy breathing and Sophie's calming, deep breaths. I keep my eyes on her, drinking her in, because my time with her is limited now.
Sophie's fidgeting, what she usually does when she's nervous or sad or agitated. She's pulling the sleeves of her cream sweater down over her hands, clenching her fists compulsively. The engagement ring catches the light and gleams on her finger.
My eyes track down to her feet as she's shifting from foot to foot. Her legs are in those soft, comfy black leggings she alwayswears on the weekend, her feet bare, her little light-pink-painted toes. Always pink. She said she liked the way the color looked against her skin.
My Sophie.
"If you have any respect for me left in you, please pack your things and get out. Now."
I do as I'm told because it's what she needs, and apparently, I'm still capable of giving it to her.
"Wait," she says, and I turn, unearned and unwanted hope filling my chest. She slides the ring from her finger and holds it out for me to take. "Here."
I shake my head immediately, "Sophie, this was a gift."
"No,thisis a joke," she shoves the ring in my hand, shaking her head in disgust. "In sickness and in health,that's what you would have promised me at the altar. Guess it's a good thing I got sick before we made it there."
I look at the ring in my hand, still warm from hers. She never took it off. She would sometimes just look down at it when she thought I wasn't looking, smiling that beautiful little happy smile of hers. I spent months designing it, making it perfect for her—her dream ring. She had described it to me in detail when the wordmarriagestarted getting tossed around more and more.
I was so pleased with the result, and when I showed my mom, she cried happy tears, telling me that Sophie was going to love it.
She did. When I proposed on the beach, her beautiful face went from shocked to happy, then delighted. She didn't even look at the ring as I did my speech, she kept her eyes on me. Always on me. Only when I slid the ring on and promised forever did she look, and she squealed in surprise.
"Sophie, I… I'm so sorry," my voice cracks, "I love you. Always."
She nods without looking up. "God… I didn't even think youhad the capacity to be this cruel."
I don't have a response worth listening to. Instead, I do what she asks of me. I text my mom to let her know I'm coming to stay for a while, then turn my phone off so I'm not distracted by the barrage of calls she'll send.
I walk into our bedroom, trying not to look at the bed and the mattress we picked out together. Sophie was like Goldilocks in the store—too soft, too firm, just right.I just stood there, amused as she lay on every single one to test it out and give it a grade.
The closet door sticks, and I yank it open to get my suitcase. It always sticks; we always said our forever home must have a huge walk-in closet with an actual door.
I don't fold my clothes; I shove them into my suitcase. The last time I used this bag, we had come back from our trip to the Bahamas to celebrate our engagement. We had a candlelight dinner on the beach and made love slowly to the sound of the ocean. The memory hits me so hard I have to sit down on the edge of the bed to keep from falling over. I try to breathe through this perpetual nausea.
From the living room comes a sound that tears me apart. Not crying exactly, not full sobbing. It breaks, stops, starts again, like she keeps remembering, and it keeps knocking her down.
