Chapter 3

When I woke up three days later, my body was wrapped in bandages and I couldn't move.

She sat by the bed, her eyes so swollen they were almost shut.

When she saw me open my eyes, she burst into tears. "You scared me to death."

Later the doctor told me that my endocrine system was damaged in the car accident. I'd need to take hormone medication long-term to maintain function.

I asked about side effects. The doctor said I'd gain weight.

I asked how much. The doctor said I might become unrecognizable.

She stood beside me and gripped my hand. "It's okay. I'll love you no matter what you look like."

When she said this, her eyes were still bright.

I believed her.

But I didn't expect the medication's side effects to come so quickly.

Three months—I gained twenty pounds.

Six months—forty pounds.

After a year, the man in the mirror had nothing to do with me anymore.

From that point on, she stopped looking at my face much.

Then one day I went to her company to find her and saw a young man standing beside her.

That boy's eyes looked very much like someone.

It took me a long time to remember—they looked like mine from three years ago.

She said he was a new intern named Costa.

He was her first "assistant."

Later, she and he grew closer and closer.

I started hearing gossip. I didn't believe it.

Until one day that intern resigned. She came home, held me, and cried, saying she was sorry, saying his eyes looked too much like mine, saying she was just confused for a moment.

She said: "I still love you."

I believed her. Then we remarried.

Six months later, she found a second one.

A third, a fourth...

Each one looked like me. Each one wasn't me.

I couldn't understand it before. Later I understood.

She never loved me as a person. She loved my face.

When that face was gone, she had to look elsewhere.

When she found someone who could piece together a part of it, she could hold on for a while. When she couldn't hold on anymore, she'd come back to remarry me.

Because no matter how many she found, she couldn't piece together a complete me.

So she had to come back, to confirm I was still here, to check in before going to find the next one.

She wasn't looking for substitutes. She was extending her own life.

And I was her oxygen tank. When she ran out of air, she'd come back for a breath. When she'd had enough, she'd go out into the world to breathe.

The airport announcement sounded. I stood up and dragged my suitcase toward the gate.

Past the gate, I didn't look back.

The night wind was cold. I pulled my coat tighter.

I found my seat by the window and sat down, looking out at the pitch-black night.

My phone vibrated in my pocket—the new phone. Only my mom knew the number.

I took it out and saw my mom's message: "Cavanaugh, your dad already left. Be careful on the road."

"Okay."

"Did she contact you?"

"Don't know. I turned off my phone."

"What if she comes looking?"

"She won't. She doesn't know I left."

"What if she finds out?"

I looked out the window, thinking for a long time.

"Even if she knows, it won't matter. I'm not waiting anymore."

The plane taxied out onto the runway and rose into the night sky.

This city, this woman, this eight-year relationship—all of it became nothing but distant lights.

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

For the first time in eight years, I didn't look back.

After the gala ended, she returned home.

She pushed open the door. The lights were still on.

The living room was quiet. An agreement sat on the coffee table.

She picked it up and flipped through a few pages. It was the divorce agreement, the ninth one.

She'd already signed it without even looking.

But tucked inside this agreement was another paper—a gift contract.

It stated: I voluntarily gift my only jointly owned property, one house, entirely and freely to the woman.

The signature was my name. The date was today.

She held that paper, her fingers beginning to tremble.

She rushed into the bedroom.

All my clothes were gone from the closet.

My computer was gone from the study.

My toothbrush was gone from the bathroom.

She pulled out her phone and dialed my number.

Powered off.

She tried again. Still powered off.

She called my mom. No answer.

She panicked.

Really panicked. Every previous divorce, I'd kept my phone on, waiting for her call, waiting for her to come back.

But not this time.

She rushed out and drove around the city searching.

She went to that noodle shop. The owner said he hadn't seen me today.

She went to that old fifty-square-foot apartment. Inside it was dusty, clearly no one had been there in a long time.

She went to the gym I used to frequent. The receptionist said I hadn't been there in three months.

She searched every place she could think of. Nothing.

As dawn approached, she stopped by the roadside, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, her whole body shaking.

Then her phone rang. She grabbed it frantically.