Fate Rolls Dark by Mark Twain 5
Chapter 5
As I left the office that evening, Ethan fell into step beside me, an unusual hesitance in his posture. “I cleared my schedule for Thursday,” he announced, as if bestowing a great gift. “We’ll finish the photos.”
I offered him a small, empty smile. “I’ll write down the recipe for you. Then you can make it for her yourself next time.”
Late that night, a video popped up on my socials from Chloe. It was grainy, loud. Her and Ethan in a dim bar, her arms around his neck, his hands on her waist, their lips locked in a deep, slow kiss. The caption: *”Don’t be mad, Laur! It was just a dare! Didn’t want you to hear it from someone else and get the wrong idea #BestFriends”*
My calm, my utter lack of hysterics, seemed to throw him. He reached out, his hand covering mine on the knife. His touch was almost… gentle.
When he reached for a bundle of celery, I took it first. A quiet, humorless laugh escaped me. “I should make the bone broth too.”
I froze. Stared. The world tilted.
At 5 AM the next morning, I was jerked from sleep. Ethan was pulling me out of bed. “Up. Now. I bought groceries. Make the breakfast you always make for me. Chloe wants it, and I can’t get it right.”
I said nothing. Just watched him leave.
I shook my head. “I can’t. I have plans.”
I continued organizing my project handoff files, ignoring the cup.
Right on cue, his phone sang Chloe’s song.
He stopped, frowning. “What?”
On the way to the client’s office, I passed the new hire, Chelsea, in the stairwell. She was gripping a silver bracelet, identical to mine, yelling into her phone. “A cubic zirconia knock-off from a department store gift-with-purchase? Are you *kidding* me? Who got the real Tiffany one, you cheating jerk?!”
My transfer was approved. I was leaving for Seattle in 48 hours. My work was almost done.
He just stared at me, his hand falling away.
He hovered, the unasked question about the finger protector hanging in the air. He never asked.
Still half-asleep, I found myself in the kitchen, my fingers curling around the chef’s knife he shoved into my hand. He buzzed around, unloading bags, talking a mile a minute about Chloe’s avocado allergy, how she liked her eggs *just so*, how the bacon had to be crispy but not burnt.
He stopped, grabbing my arm. “That’s the third time you’ve shut me down today. What is wrong with you?” His voice rose. “Talk to me, Lauren!”
He was animated. Warm. Alive. It was a side of him I rarely saw, reserved exclusively for her.
The change was instantaneous. The anger evaporated, replaced by urgent concern. He released me, turning away. “Hey, what’s wrong? Okay, okay, breathe. I’m coming.”
After lunch, Ethan stalked to my desk, his expression stormy. I gave him a flat, disinterested look and went back to my screen.
I walked to a trash can in the corner of the lobby. I pulled the cheap silver bracelet from my purse—I’d worn it every day—and dropped it in. The wrinkled finger protector followed.
I cooked. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, the broth. I packed it all in his favorite insulated carrier. At the door, he turned, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. “That wedding dress you loved… the one with the long sleeves. I’ll bring it home tonight.”
Five years of devotion. Five years of being his cook, his maid, his emotional punching bag. That was enough to repay a broken finger.
He didn’t look back. Not once.
“…You don’t have to go all out,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “It’s just breakfast.”
He didn’t come home that night.
I let it ring. And ring. And go to voicemail.
I began washing the celery, my movements mechanical. “You always finish that. Every last drop. You never leave any.” I looked up, meeting his confused eyes. “She must love it.”
My hand clenched around the soft leather finger protector in my pocket, crumpling it into a pathetic lump.
He loomed beside me, a tense silence emanating from him. Finally, he set his half-finished takeout coffee cup next to my keyboard. “Here. You look tired.”
My phone rang again. Ethan’s old number, the one still etched in my memory after five years.
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