The Lucky Charm That Never Blessed Me

"It's just a stupid lucky charm. Must you make a big deal out of it?" Luke Bates' voice dropped as his fingers tapped the steering wheel in annoyance.

"The elders just say whatever's on their mind, and you take it straight to heart. We're registering our marriage next month, so stop looking for trouble."

Without a word, I stared at the faded lucky charm locket hanging from the rearview mirror.

It swayed with every bump in the road.

The air conditioning blasted cold air into the car.

Even though it was early summer, a chill ran down my neck, like an ice cube was pressed against my spine.

I couldn't shake the memory of the dinner an hour ago.

Luke had dropped a steamed shrimp onto my plate.

When I reminded him I was allergic to seafood, he froze for half a second, then casually tossed the shrimp onto Phoebe Grant's plate instead.

Then, he moved the salad right in front of her. "Your stomach's sensitive. Stick to something light."

We had been together for seven years.

He remembered Phoebe's weak stomach, her love for yams, and every offhand vow she ever made.

Yet he forgot that a single bite of seafood could send me into anaphylactic shock.

I pressed my fingertips against the cold car window. The chill crept up through my fingers.

I spoke softly. "Luke, when you lie, do you ever dare look up at that lucky charm?"

The tires screeched against the asphalt.

Luke slammed on the brakes, pulling hard into the emergency lane. He whipped his head around with a frown. "Anna Parker, how much longer are you going to keep this up?"

I didn't look at him. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on the swaying locket.

My quiet composure only seemed to set him off. He reached out and violently ripped the lucky charm from the mirror.

The string snapped with a sharp crack that echoed through the quiet car. "It's just some stupid charm. I'll throw it away, okay?"

He shoved the locket into the center console and hit the gas.

For the rest of the drive, the only sound in the car was the hum of the air conditioner.

The glass warmed beneath my hand, but my palm was clammy with sweat.

In the dead of night, I woke up thirsty. On my way to get a glass of water, I froze by the balcony door.

Luke was leaning against the railing. A dying cigarette was pinched between his fingers. The red embers flickered in the dark.

By the dim streetlights below, I saw it plain as day.

The lucky charm he'd shoved into the console earlier was now nestled in his hands.

His thumb traced the tarnished edges of the old locket, over and over. His touch was delicate. It was as if he were soothing a sleeping child.

I stepped quietly back into the bedroom, leaving him undisturbed.

In the end, I never got that glass of water.

By morning, the apartment was empty. An insulated clay pot sat on the dining table, resting on a sticky note. "I'm sorry about my temper last night. I made some soup. Drink it while it's warm."

The moment I lifted the lid, a pungent, overpowering waft of herbs hit me right in the face.

I gave it a stir with the wooden spoon, turning up stems of thyme, a cracked bay leaf, and several unknown dried botanicals.

In seven years, my stomach had never given me a day of trouble. The one with the bad stomach, and the one who actually needed this remedy, was Luke.

He had ruined his own gut years ago just to honor Phoebe's promise to go vegan.