Chapter 3

Violet turned around, her gaze loose and unfocused from the drink.

"Yours?"

"Max Barnes, are you sure about that?"

I opened my mouth, and the words caught in my throat.

Three years ago, a patient's family attacked me at the hospital. The nerves in my right wrist were damaged, and I could never hold a scalpel steady again.

Those were the darkest days of my life.

It was Violet who appeared when I was at my lowest, Violet who paid the down payment on this house.

She held me and said gently, "Maxie, don't be scared. I'll take care of you."

"From now on you'll be my personal chef. All I want is for you to cook for me every day. Okay?"

For three years, I got up at six every morning, studied recipes, chopped vegetables until my left hand was covered in calluses, and made her something different every day.

I scrimped on everything, saved every dollar I earned, wanting to repay what she'd done for me.

I thought I'd paid it back a long time ago.

"What, drawing a blank?"

Violet took two steps closer and looked down at me.

"Without me, back then you were a cripple who couldn't even lift a scalpel."

"Without me covering the down payment, you'd still be rotting away in some rental."

"Max, all these years you've eaten my food, lived in my house, spent my money. The polite word is boyfriend. The honest one is a kept man."

Grant covered his mouth and laughed out loud.

"Max, you still don't know? This house was signed over to me ages ago."

My head snapped up, my pupils shrinking.

"Last time Violet lost a game, my price was this house."

Violet added flatly, "Grant wanted it, so I gave it to him."

"Oh, right."

Grant supported Violet as they walked forward, tossing the words back over his shoulder like they weighed nothing.

"And all that food you made? Violet never touched a bite. It all got sent over to me."

"Would've been a shame to just throw it out. Lucky my dogs love it."

I stood there, and a cold crept through my arms and legs.

All those breakfasts I thought she'd eaten, all those flavors I adjusted so carefully, remembering she hated scallions, hated cilantro, every little detail, all that porridge I woke early to simmer.

All of it, dumped out.

I turned around and opened the drawer.

I pulled out the deed, flipped it open, to the line for the owner.

Grant Harding.

The name, plain as day.

I stared at it for a long time, my fingers trembling.

Beside the box was a thick photo album.

Eight years of pictures of Violet and me.

The first time we watched snow fall together, our college graduation, our first trip, our first New Year's, the fireworks the night she confessed to me.

I opened to the first page, a photo of the two of us.

But my face had been scribbled over with a black marker, dense and heavy.

I turned the page. Covered again.

In every photo, Violet's face was untouched, her eyes clear, her smile soft.

And my face, every one, blacked out into a dark smear.

On the last page, a line was written across the blank paper.

"Stay away from her, you freak."

I closed the album, held it against my chest, crouched on the floor, and finally sobbed out loud.

For eight years, I thought I was loved.

From beginning to end, I was nothing but a joke.

When I was done crying, I put the album back in the drawer, walked into the bedroom, and started packing my things.

One item at a time, folded and set into the case.

The one letter my father left me, and my medical license, still not expired.

By the time I came out of the bedroom, the rain had long stopped. Wind blew in through the window, carrying the damp of summer.

I pulled the door open and walked out.