Returning the Keys, Taking My Freedom Chapter 2

Five years together, and that was everything I'd ever received from Valeria—five fridge magnets, while Rosalie got weekends at mountain resorts, carefully planned experiences, birthday surprises, and a nickname that apparently belonged only to her.

My phone lit up again just as I was processing it, showing another picture from Julian of a deer-shaped fridge magnet still in its packaging. The message read, "Cute, right? Rosalie helped me pick it out."

Even the gifts he bought for me somehow involved her. I typed out a question.

"What did you get Rosalie?"

My thumb hovered over the send button before I deleted the words one by one and sent a single, hollow reply.

"Yeah."

Two days later, Julian came home, rolling his suitcase through the door before reaching into one of the side compartments to hand me a small paper bag.

"Your fridge magnet."

Then he pulled out a much larger shopping bag and set it down by the entryway.

"What's that?"

"Something for Rosalie. A scarf. She said Bellmont has better designs."

A corner of the scarf was peeking out of the bag.

It was a cashmere scarf in a deep burgundy shade.

I reached out to touch it. It was incredibly soft.

The winter before, I'd told Julian I wanted a cashmere scarf, and he'd looked at me like I'd suggested buying something completely pointless.

"Why do you need another scarf? Don't you already have a bunch in your closet?"

I did have a bunch, but every single one of them I'd bought myself.

"You bought her a scarf?" I asked.

"She asked me to pick it up for her. It was no big deal," he said, walking into the living room to drop onto the couch. "I'm exhausted. The flight was four hours long."

"When are you going to take me to Valeria?"

He paused, looking confused. "Where did that come from?"

"It didn't come from anywhere. I've been asking you for five years."

"I'll take you there next time, once things settle down at work."

Next time.

That made 17 times.

I didn't say anything else.

Just before dinner, Julian's mother, Marianne Dyer, called me.

"Elena, Julian's home, isn't he? You two really need to get moving on the wedding plans. People keep asking me when the invitations are going out."

"We're still working on everything."

"Oh, Rosalie came over last week and helped me choose the wedding favors. We narrowed it down to four options. I'll send you some pictures, and you can tell me what you think."

My hand stilled around my fork.

"Rosalie helped you choose our wedding favors?"

"Of course. She knew you were busy with work, so she offered to help. Isn't that sweet of her?"

I looked across the table at Julian.

He was scrolling through his phone, completely absorbed in whatever was on the screen.

"Marianne, you can always ask me about things like that. There's no need to trouble Rosalie."

"Trouble? Oh, don't be silly. She's here all the time. Three of four times a month, at least. I see more of her than I see you."

During the second year Julian and I were together, I'd suggested visiting his mother every week.

"You don't need to go that often," Julian had told me. "Mom likes her peace and quiet."

So I'd cut it back to once a month.

Later, he'd told me, "You're busy anyway. Once every couple of months is plenty."

Apparently, his mother had never disliked having company; she just hadn't wanted mine.

Rosalie could show up three or four times a month, and somehow no one ever found her presence too much.

"Marianne, I'll take care of the wedding favors."

"Alright. But Rosalie picked out some lovely ones. At least take a look before you decide."

After we hung up, I turned to Julian. "Did you ask Rosalie to help your mother with our wedding favors?"

"She offered."

"And you knew about it?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What was there to tell? She was just helping out."

"It's our wedding, Julian. Why is she helping plan it?"

He frowned. "You're always working late. I figured you didn't have time."

"Did you ever ask me?"

"Fine. From now on, you can handle all of it yourself. Happy?"

There it was. That edge of impatience. It always went the same way.

First came "Don't read into it."

Then, "What's the big deal?"

And finally, "Fine, fine. Whatever you say."

And somehow, nothing ever got resolved.

My phone lit up again.

Marianne had sent me a photo.

Rosalie stood in her kitchen wearing an apron, holding a casserole dish fresh from the oven. She was smiling at the camera, warm and perfectly at ease.

Beneath it, Marianne had written, "Rosalie made my pot roast. It tastes just like mine!"

Rosalie looked more at home in that kitchen than I ever had.

She knew which cabinet held the plates, which drawer the utensils were in, where Marianne kept the spices. She knew how Marianne took her coffee and what she liked for dinner.

I'd been coming to that house for five years, and I still had to ask where things were, purely because Julian had told me there was no need to visit so often.

Another message from Marianne popped up on my screen.