“Why isn’t there any food?”
I looked at her and asked quietly, “Didn’t you already eat?”
There was a time, not so long ago, when I’d cook and wait for her every night, no matter how late she came home—even when she said she’d eaten out.
“I don’t want to argue,” she snapped, brushing past me.
She tossed a small, gift-wrapped box on the table.
“A present, just for you. Didn’t you say you wanted a watch?”
She opened the box herself. Inside was a watch—its dull face and worn band betraying its age. It was secondhand.
I didn’t say anything. Just looked away.
Her impatience flared.
“Kevin Scott, what’s your problem now? You’re the one who said you wanted it. Why are you throwing a fit again?”
I finally looked up at her and spoke softly.
“I don’t want something that’s already been used. It feels... dirty.”
“You—”
She was about to lose it when her phone chimed with a message.
She checked it and smiled without thinking. A bright, happy smile. Then she looked at me.
“You’re such a pain. Everything has to be a big deal with you. I must’ve owed you something in a past life.”
She slipped on her shoes. “Wait here. I’ll go buy you a new one.”
“How long will you be gone?” I asked.