The Woman Who Came Between Us

I stood by the side of the empty highway, the midday sun beating down on me until the heat made it hard to breathe.

The bandage on my knee fell off long ago, and blood trickled down my calf and soaked into the top of my shoe, leaving it sticky and wet.

I had been walking for nearly an hour when a car suddenly honked behind me.

Patrick Far slammed on the brakes beside me. As the window rolled down, the first thing he said was, “What, are you mute, Yuna Watson?”

He didn’t notice my pallid face or the blood seeping from my wound.

Instead, he continued scolding me.

“You didn’t get in the car. Couldn’t you have called or sent us a message?

“If Dolly hadn’t realized you weren’t in the car, were you planning to let us drive all the way to our destination? You’re seriously such a pain.”

I lowered my eyes and numbly tapped my phone screen.

The call log showed dozens of unanswered calls to Patrick and Dolly—calls I had made repeatedly while fighting through the pain.

But they were so engrossed in their conversation that they hadn’t even found a moment to glance at their phones.

Dolly quickly got out of the car, her voice soft and coaxing.

“Oh, Patrick, stop scolding her. You know what Yuna’s like. She’s so absent-minded. She must have forgotten.”

The moment she finished speaking, she let out a startled cry.

“Oh my gosh, your knee is bleeding! Does it hurt?”

As she spoke, she reached out to bandage my wound, but Patrick suddenly grabbed her by the wrist.

He scooped Dolly up in his arms and carried her back to the front passenger seat.

“You’re already feeling carsick. Don’t strain yourself.”

After settling Dolly in, Patrick finally turned to me and crouched down to tend to my injured knee.

When he finished, he silently opened the back door and gestured for me to get in.

Once he was back in the driver’s seat, he unscrewed a bottle of water and instinctively handed it to Dolly first.

“Have some water. You look pale.”

Dolly took it and drank a few sips before handing it back.

Patrick tipped his head back and took a drink from the same bottle. Only after that did he remember that I was sitting in the back seat.

“Yuna, do you want some?”

Before I could answer, Dolly reached over and smacked him on the arm.

“Patrick, are you crazy? You drank from it, and now you’re giving it to Yuna?”

“Open a fresh bottle for her!”

Patrick gave a small laugh and pulled his arm back. Then he rummaged through the storage compartment, took out a new bottle, and tossed it onto the seat beside me.

The plastic bottle bounced once against the leather seat and rolled to my hand. I didn’t move.

The two of them started chatting again in the front seats.

Dolly said, “There’s a B&B in the town up ahead that looks pretty nice. A friend of mine stayed there and said the owner makes incredible chicken soup.”

Patrick hummed. “Then we’ll stay there for the night and get back on the road tomorrow.”

“I’ll call and book two rooms?”

“Sure.”

Not once did either of them ask me what I wanted.

Curled up in the back seat, I opened Patrick’s Instagram profile.

He rarely posted, but every single post was about Dolly.

Last winter, Dolly was smiling in the snow with a scarf wrapped around her neck.

That spring, she was holding up a cup of coffee and flashing a peace sign.

Last month, he posted a picture of Dolly crouching by the roadside and feeding a stray cat. The caption read, “Dolly fed the cat, but the cat ignored me.”

A dull ache tightened in my chest, and my eyes instantly filled with tears.

Suddenly, a new chat window appeared on WhatsApp.

There was no name saved, and the profile picture showed a side view of someone’s face silhouetted against the light.

It was Patrick—five years in the future.

I could no longer hold back the hurt and bitterness that had been building inside me.

I typed slowly.

[When did this start between you two?]

After I sent the message, the words “Typing…” remained at the top of the chat.

I waited in silence, watching the words appear and disappear over and over for a full fifteen minutes.

Finally, his reply appeared on the screen in heavy, somber words.

[I don’t know. Maybe the day I left for college in Northvale.]