Our Time, On the Clock

The 4,000 dollars had barely gone through when Callum Walker's secretary, Leon Barrymore, sent over a payment confirmation.

Attached was a document titled "Annual Personal Time Usage Statement."

January: wedding anniversary dinner, ninety minutes. He showed up thirty-five minutes late, then spent forty-six minutes on the phone with Mia Garfield. We actually talked for nine minutes. Ninety minutes deducted from my allowance.

May: I was hospitalized with a high fever. He stayed in my room for six minutes. That same night, he spent four hours in the ER with Mia, who was running a low-grade fever of 37.2°C.

August: sex, twenty-one minutes. Afterward, craving his warmth, I held on to him for two extra minutes. Those two minutes were itemized separately.

Nobody had bothered to fully rename the attachment. Its original file name was still there: "Mrs. Five Hours: Annual Allowance Summary."

I stared at those words until my vision blurred. Only then did I understand that that was what everyone at the firm called me behind my back.

Mrs. Five Hours.

That was the title six years of marriage had earned me.

Something lodged in my throat. It took a long time before I could force the tears back down.

The tuition payment confirmation from the language school was still sitting in my inbox. Only twelve days remained until enrollment.

I wiped the dampness from my eyes and went back to my hometown to handle the final arrangements for my father, Russell Merriott.

While I was filling out the burial paperwork, the clerk glanced at the next-of-kin section. "Your husband didn't come today?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Max Parson, Dad's old friend, smoothed it over for me. "Callum's a big-shot lawyer. He's busy. Russell always said family matters shouldn't get in the way of his son-in-law's work."

Everyone around us fell silent.

Uncle Max saw my red eyes. He hesitated for a long time before speaking in a low voice, "Last winter, your dad heard Callum's stomach was acting up. He got up before dawn to make chicken soup, and I drove him to the law firm.

"He waited downstairs for three hours and never even made it through the door.

"When that Ms. Garfield finally came down, she asked if he was trying to eat into your five hours, and told him not to come around causing trouble again without an appointment."

My nails dug into my palms. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

Uncle Max looked away. "Your dad wouldn't let me. He said your marriage hadn't been easy, and he couldn't let you be humiliated any more than you already were."

I lowered my head, and without warning, my tears fell onto Dad's memorial portrait.

Even in death, Dad had been covering for me. What he never knew was that I had lost all my dignity in the Walker family long ago.

I found the soup thermos in the cupboard. Taped to the lid was a note in Dad's crooked handwriting: "Callum has a bad stomach. Go easy on the coffee."

Right at that moment, my phone lit up.

Mia had just posted on Instagram. In the photo, Callum was carrying her shopping bag full of blind boxes, his sleeves rolled up, his expression more relaxed than I'd seen it in a long time.

The caption read: [Callum waited in line with me for two hours, and I finally got the doll I've been dying for! Time is meant to be wasted on things that make you happy.]

I stared at it for a long time, until the screen went dark.

When I got home that night, the light in the study was on. Callum had said he still had work to do.

But as I passed the door, I heard his low chuckle. "Two hours in line and you're still not satisfied? Fine, I'll keep you company tonight. This doesn't count."

I stopped outside the door, my nose stinging. Then I lowered my eyes and walked past the study.

Callum saw me, and his smile faded slightly. He quickly ended the call, followed me into the bedroom, and wrapped his arms around me from behind.

His familiar scent closed in around me, but my body flinched away before my mind could catch up.

Callum's hands froze in midair.