The Husband Who Forgot My Allergy Chapter 2

"Jo? I have something for you."

The next afternoon, there was a knock at my hotel door. It was Mrs. Gable. She stood in the hallway holding a dark brown paper bag, her expression a mix of pity and discomfort.

"Elliot sent me," she said. "He said he wanted to smooth things over."

Inside the bag was a cake box from a high-end French patisserie across town. It was the place I’d mentioned wanting to try months ago—the one with the two-hour line. He’d barely looked up from his phone then, muttering maybe another time.

"Where is he?"

"At the office," she hesitated. "He said he’d come by to pick you up himself after his meetings."

I took the box. "Thanks, Mrs. Gable."

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she just sighed. "Take care of yourself, Jo."

I set the box on the desk and opened it.

It was a three-layer mousse cake, the top covered in intricately carved slices of fresh mango.

Mango.

I took a small fork and poked at the center. Even the filling was mango coulis.

I started to laugh. It wasn't a happy sound.

He knew I didn't eat the shrimp, but in his head, he’d swapped my allergy with Kaylee’s. Now, in a pathetic attempt at an apology, he’d bought a cake that catered to the other woman's tastes.

How many things in the "Jodie’s Favorites" folder in his brain were actually about me?

At 3:30 PM, he arrived.

He pushed the door open, his suit jacket draped over his arm, sleeves rolled up as if he’d been rushing. But I noticed his watch face was turned toward the inside of his wrist—a nervous habit. He was checking the time. He was on a schedule.

"Did you eat the cake?" He went straight for the desk.

The box was open, the fork resting inside, the cake almost untouched.

"I had a bite."

"And? I had to pull some strings to get that."

"You did?"

He paused. "Well, I had the intern go pick it up, but I placed the order."

The intern. Of course.

"Elliot," I said, staying seated by the window. "This cake. It’s mango."

"Yeah. Your favorite, right?"

"I don't like mangoes."

His face shifted for a split second before he smoothed it over. "But... you said you weren't allergic to them?"

"Not being allergic to something isn't the same as liking it. We’ve been married for four years, and there has never been a mango in our refrigerator. Whose taste were you thinking of when you bought this?"

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. He dropped his jacket on the bed and leaned against the desk, refusing to look at me.

"Can you please stop reading into everything?"

"Reading into what?"

"You know exactly what," he said, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot. "Kaylee is just a kid, Jo. She’s an intern. I’m just trying to be a good mentor—"

"She posted a story for 'Close Friends' only. She forgot to exclude Mrs. Gable."

He went quiet.

"'Nothing beats the feeling of someone remembering your little quirks,'" I quoted. "Did you order her a separate drink? Did you specifically tell the barista 'no mango' for her?"

"That’s because on her first day, someone ordered her a mango smoothie and her throat almost closed up! I had to remember it. It’s my job as a boss to—"

"And what about your job as a husband?"

My voice wasn't loud, but he winced as if I’d slapped him.

Then, the guilt turned into anger. It always did with him.

"Enough, Jodie," he said, pulling out the desk chair and sitting down hard. "So a girl in my office has an allergy. I’m a boss who looks out for his staff, and suddenly I’m an adulterer? Is this what happens when you spend too much time as a housewife? You lose touch with reality and start inventing ghosts to fight?"

Housewife. Out of touch. Inventing ghosts.

The words were old, tired weapons.

Four years ago, when his first startup collapsed, he had been a shell of a man. He didn't eat, didn't bathe, didn't leave the house. I had quit my job as a lead concept artist at a major studio to take care of him full-time. At 3:00 AM, when he’d wake up screaming from nightmares, I was the one who moved every sharp object out of the house. I was the one who started those journals—recording his progress, sketching him on the days he finally smiled.

Those journals were the only reason he survived that year.

And now, he was telling me I’d lost touch with reality.

"Elliot, you didn't just lose your memory," I said. "You lost your soul."

He opened his mouth to retort, but I stood up and grabbed my suitcase.

"Keep the cake," I said. "I’m staying with Piper."

"Jo—"

"Don't follow me."

I walked through the lobby. It wasn't cold outside, but the wind felt abrasive against my skin.

At the crosswalk, my phone vibrated.

A text from Elliot: Fine. Go stay with your bridesmaid for a few days. Cool off. But don't make this a long thing.

As if he were granting me a hall pass.

I didn't answer. I put the phone in my pocket and crossed the street.