Smart Enough to Finally Leave You Chapter 1

At seven years old, I shoved my childhood sweetheart out of the path of a speeding car. The impact shattered my skull, and when I finally woke up, the bright, quick-witted girl I used to be was gone.

I was simple.

But Wesley didn’t abandon me. He stayed. He laughed at my nonsensical jokes, played make-believe with me, and the moment we turned twenty-two, he made me his wife.

But after the wedding, everything changed. Wesley claimed he had developed a severe case of sensory aversion—a hyper-sensitivity to order and germs.

If I touched a dish on the table, he deemed it contaminated. He would throw the entire meal into the trash and go to bed hungry rather than eat it.

If I drank from a cup, it went straight into the garbage.

Even in sleep, if my arm accidentally brushed against his, he would bolt upright in the dead of night, rush to the bathroom, and scrub his skin with a coarse sponge until it was raw and angry red.

I didn't understand the medical jargon of his condition, but I hated seeing him in pain. So, I quietly ordered a bulk box of latex gloves.

I wore them to bed. I wore them to cook. When I handed him a glass of water, I kept my bare hands tucked away, letting only the cold, blue rubber touch the glass.

Then came the afternoon my mother asked me to bring him lunch at his office.

Mallory, his new assistant, intercepted me in the lobby. She took the warm thermos from my hands, and with her other hand, she casually offered Wesley her half-finished iced latte.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Wesley took it. He wrapped his lips around the straw she had just used and took several deep, contented sips.

I stood frozen, my mind struggling to process the scene. Was his condition gone? Had he been cured?

Mallory looked over her shoulder at me, a slow, knowing smirk pulling at her lips.

Then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Only a simpleton like you would believe a grown man has a "sensory aversion" disorder.

He isn't sick, Daisy. He's just physically repulsed by your broken brain.

For once, my slow mind grasped the weight of the word repulsed.

My chest ached so deeply that I bit my lip until it bled, tasting copper.

And then, a memory flickered. Elliot.

Elliot was the neighborhood pest when we were kids—the boy who always teased me, who had spent his entire life picking fights with Wesley. Two days ago, he had sent me a text out of the blue.

He had called Wesley a fraud, a parasite. He told me his research lab in Boston had made a breakthrough in neuro-reconstruction—a procedure that could fix my damaged brain. He asked me if I wanted to leave with him.

At the time, I had assumed he was just being cruel, trying to mess with me like he always did.

But now, looking at Wesley's lips on Mallory's straw, I stared at my phone and typed a single word: Yes.

* * *

Wesley looked up and saw me standing there, his eyes dropping to the thermos in Mallory's hands. He stepped forward, snatched it away, and shoved it back into my chest.

"I told you, I don't eat food cooked by outsiders," he said, his voice flat. "Take it back."

Outsiders.

The word stung. Instinctively, my eyes drifted past his shoulder.

Mallory had made herself comfortable on Wesley's private leather sofa, tearing open a bag of potato chips.

"It's lunchtime," she said with a shrug, popping a chip into her mouth. "I'm starving."

Salty crumbs spilled onto her lap, tumbling down into the deep crevices of the expensive leather.

Wesley followed my gaze, but instead of the cold rage he usually reserved for messes, he simply let out a fond, helpless sigh. "Those are dry. Do you want me to grab you something to drink?"

I stared at the crumbs on the sofa.

My mind dragged me back to last winter, when Wesley had driven me to the clinic for my routine neurological checkup.

After the blood draw, my blood sugar had plummeted. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold myself upright. I had taken a half-eaten bagel from my bag, desperate to stop the trembling.

The moment I took a bite, Wesley slammed on the brakes. His face was entirely expressionless as he opened the passenger door.

"Get out of my car. I don't tolerate crumbs. You're ruining the leather."

It was pouring rain that day.

I had begged him, crying, promising I would be so careful, that I wouldn't let a single speck fall.

But he had pushed me out anyway, locking the doors and driving away.

I couldn't remember the way home. My geography was a jumbled mess of colors and wrong turns.

By the time my mother found me shivering under a bus stop hours later, I was on the verge of passing out from hypoglycemia and burning up with a high fever.

When my furious mother confronted him, I had held her back, weeping.

Wesley is sick, Mom. He didn't mean to. His illness makes him do it.

But now, watching him smile at Mallory's mess, I couldn't make the pieces fit.

I stubbornly held the thermos higher, my hands trembling. "I spent three months learning how to make this from Mom. Your stomach has been acting up, Wesley. It's healthy. And I wore my gloves the whole time—it's perfectly clean. No crumbs."

He didn't reach for it. His face hardened.

"How can you even compare yourself to her?" he muttered, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You're nothing but a burden—"

He cut himself off, but the damage was done. With a sharp, impatient thrust of his hand, he shoved the thermos away.

"Just go home, Daisy. Stop making a scene."

The thermos slipped from my grip, crashing onto the marble floor. The lid popped off, and the boiling hot broth splashed directly over the back of my hand.

Blisters bloomed instantly across my skin, pale and agonizing.

The pain was so sharp my eyes filled with tears.

Around us, the office staff began to whisper, their eyes burning into me.

I knelt down, my hand throbbing, and picked up the dented metal canister. A few of the blisters had already popped, leaving a raw, sticky mess against my skin.

Wesley stared down at my hand, his lips parting slightly.

"I'll... I'll take you to the ER," he muttered, his voice suddenly sounding hollow.