Chapter 4

Two days later, Queenie called me over to the apartment we'd bought for our married life.

She said, "Let's talk one last time."

I hadn't wanted to go. But the two throw pillows my grandmother had sewn by hand and left to me were still in that apartment.

When the door opened, every light in the place was on.

Two place settings had been laid out on the dining table.

There was an extra pair of men's slippers in the entryway. Bill's jacket hung on the coat rack, and two toothbrushes sat side by side on the bathroom counter.

Grandma's two handmade pillows had been shoved into a corner of the couch, with Bill's laptop resting on top of them.

Queenie stood at the kitchen doorway with her sleeves rolled up to her forearms. There was a small red burn on the back of her hand.

She hated cooking. She'd once said the return on investment of dealing with the grease, the prep, and the cleanup was too low.

During our three years together, I had slowly learned to make tomato beef stew and garlic butter shrimp. I even remembered that she didn't eat scallions and wouldn't touch cilantro.

There was even a sticky note on the fridge.

[Bill, stop ordering takeout.]

All the patience I had once begged for and never gotten, she was now giving to another man.

She looked up at me, her expression as natural as if nothing had happened. "Sit down."

I didn't move. "You called me here so I could see Bill has already moved in?"

The bedroom door suddenly opened.

Bill walked out wearing my old loungewear.

Queenie and I had bought that set together when we first moved in. She'd said the color was soft, perfect for wearing around the house.

Now it was on another man, the sleeves rolled up just right.

Bill carried a glass of warm water over to Queenie. "Queenie, the doctor said pregnant women shouldn't drink anything cold."

He set the glass in front of her and, with practiced ease, pulled out her chair.

Queenie didn't refuse. She just glanced up at me, as if she were observing my reaction.

Bill took a test report out of a folder and deliberately set it on the table. "Queenie's eight weeks along. The baby is developing well."

My eyes landed on the paper.

Queenie was pregnant.

I instinctively took a step back.

The day of my vasectomy, I'd lain in the hospital bed in so much pain that my whole body ran cold. She held my hand and told me she never wanted children. "The two of us are enough."

Her voice had been so soft back then, and I'd held on to those words for three whole years.

Bill watched my face, the corners of his mouth slowly curling up.

Queenie finally frowned. "Bill, step outside for a minute."

She pushed the prenatal report toward me, her tone calm again. "If you're willing to come back, you can raise the baby."

I thought I'd misheard.

"The baby can take your last name," she said evenly. "You're stable and responsible, and you'd make a good father. Bill is only providing the physical samples. It makes more sense to leave the long-term life to you."

She said it so naturally.

As if my being good to her was simply what I was supposed to do, and every time I gave in meant I would never really leave.

"Queenie, you called me here so I'd obediently play the cuckold and raise the baby you had with another man?"

She frowned. "Why do you always have to put things so harshly? I'm willing to give you a chance to stay."

"You don't want me to stay." I pried her fingers off me one by one. "You just believe I won't leave."

I bent down and picked up the two pillows from the corner of the couch. "I'm taking these."

"You're leaving?" For the first time, her voice was tight.

I held the pillows close. "Queenie, I'm done playing your scoring game."

I dragged my suitcase toward the door.

It wasn't until the elevator doors were about to close that she finally chased after me to the doorway. "Darren."

She stood outside the door watching my back as I refused to turn around, her face slowly draining of color.

She had probably finally realized that I truly didn't want to be her sample anymore.