Page 134 of Ruthless Claim

Like somewhere in this city my wife isn’t sitting in our apartment—or Emma’s or her mother’s, or wherever she is—feeling exactly the way she feels because of me.

I pour another one.

But I don’t drink it. Instead, I just hold it, the glass sweating slightly in my hand as I stare out at the city below.

I’ve been lying to her for a month.

I’ve known it the whole time; I’ve just been calling it something else. Protecting her. Waiting for the right information.

That’s what I told myself, even when I could see that our marriage was turning into something unrecognizable.

Even when she asked me over and over what was wrong and I said nothing, nothing, fine, it’s fine, it’s work.

It wasn’t fine.

It was me being a coward and dressing it up as consideration.

I put the whiskey down and put my face in my hands.

For whatever reason, the bakery on 67th flashes in my mind. She loves that bakery and has mentioned it before.

I always made a note to stop there, to bring something back. I wanted her to know I listen to whatever she says.

I wanted to see her delighted smile.

But I never stopped.

I kept thinking there’d be more time.

My jacket becomes uncomfortably tight and I peel it off me.

But as I do so, I hear a crinkling in one of the pockets. My brow furrows. I don’t recall putting anything in there?

Reaching my hand, my fingers close around a small piece of paper. Bringing it out, I open it and my heart seizes.

It’s a worn Post-it note with the words: naiinis ako sa iyo written on it in Valentina’s writing. It’s Tagalog for “you annoy me.” With trembling fingers, I trace the two stars she scribbled on it. The Post-it note is soft at the folds now and warm from my pocket.

When was it put in here?

Valentina must have done so as another way to annoy me.

God that feels like a lifetime ago, when we were slipping notes to each other like middle schoolers.

Was that only a month ago?

I fold the note back up and place it safely back in my pocket.

I set the whiskey down and lay back on the hotel bed on top of the covers, ignoring that people have probably fucked on the comforter.

I don’t even care right now.

All I can think about is her face. The look when she saw me. When she confronted me.

The way she looked at me right before the door closed. Like she has never been more betrayed in her life.

I put that look on her face.

Bitterness twists in me. I don’t sleep.