Three Days Until You Lose Me Chapter 2

Only the bedside lamp lit the bedroom.

When Jacob came out of the shower, he noticed the closet was half empty.

"Why are you packing your clothes?"

A towel hung over his shoulders, water droplets tracing the line of his collarbone.

I used to chase him with a hairdryer on nights like this. He would complain about the noise but pull me into his chest anyway, laughing and saying, "Fay, I married you so someone would finally keep me in line."

Now, the hairdryer sat in its drawer, its cord neatly wrapped.

I folded the last sweater into my suitcase.

"Just changing out the seasonal clothes. Taking them to the dry cleaners."

"The housekeeper can handle that."

"She won't be coming back next month."

Jacob blinked, caught off guard.

"You fired her?"

"Yes."

I was the one who hired her. I paid her salary.

He had never known.

Over the last four years, he simply took for granted that the house was always clean, his shirts pressed, his stomach medicine stocked, his dinners warm.

As if these things grew naturally out of the walls.

"You've been acting strange lately."

Jacob stepped closer, reaching for the document envelope sitting on top of my suitcase.

I slapped my hand over it. "Don't touch that."

His gaze fell to the back of my hand.

There was a faint pink scar, left over from a kitchen accident last month.

The night it happened, Cassie had been chased by a stalker, and Jacob left me alone in the ER lobby. Before he bolted, he only said, "If anything happens to her, the whole group is ruined."

The local anesthetic hadn't fully kicked in when they stitched me up. The nurse had asked where my husband was.

I told her he was busy.

Busy carrying his ex-girlfriend into a production van.

"What's in there?" Jacob's voice dropped.

"My personal things."

"Since when do we have separate things?"

The irony was almost suffocating.

During our second year of marriage, Cassie returned to the country and signed with Jacob’s agency.

The very first day, he came home and told me: "Work is work. Don't interfere."

From then on, his schedules, his calls, his dinners, his social media—everything became a boundary I was forbidden to cross.

He had drawn the line between us clearly enough.

But now that I was leaving, he wanted to talk about being partners.

His phone rang. It was his mother. He picked up and put it on speaker.

"Jacob, sweetie, did you tell Fay yet? Tell her to get here early tomorrow."

My mother-in-law's voice was bright with forced cheer. "Cassie is coming too. She's so famous now, having her over for dinner really makes your father look good in front of the neighbors."

Jacob glanced at me.

"She says she's not coming."

There was a sharp pause on the line.

"Not coming? She's a housewife, what could she possibly be busy with?"

I leaned down to slide my passport and ID into my bag.

"Is she throwing another tantrum over Cassie?" Diane sighed. "Fay, you need to grow up. A man in Jacob's position has to play the part sometimes. It's just business."

"Diane," I spoke up.

Jacob’s eyes locked onto me.

"I have plans tomorrow."

"What plans could possibly be more important than your father-in-law's birthday?"

"Paperwork."

My mother-in-law let out a dry, dismissive laugh. "Stop letting those internet blogs poison your mind. Jacob marrying you was the best thing that ever happened to you. Don't ruin your own luck."

"Luck."

I remembered the day we got our marriage license. Jacob had taken me to a cheap late-night diner.

He pressed the license against his chest and said, "Fay, the best thing that ever happened to me is you."

We divided a six-dollar plate of pancakes, and he gave me all the strawberries.

Then his career took off, he grew busier, and he slowly drifted to a height I could no longer reach.

That license had been locked in the bottom drawer of my desk. When I handed it to Simon yesterday to make copies, the edges were already yellowed.

"Are you listening to me?" Diane pressed.

I zipped my suitcase shut. "I hear you."

Jacob hung up the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Just go tomorrow, Fay. Don't make this harder for me."

"I'm not going."

His patience finally snapped.

"Fay, what are you trying to prove? Cassie is an artist, I'm her manager. Protecting her is my job."

"And what is protecting me?"

The question hung in the quiet room, heavy and suffocating.

Jacob stared at me. It took him a long moment to find his voice. "You're safe at home. What is there to protect you from?"

Headlights from a passing car swept across the ceiling.

The sharp click of my suitcase locks felt like the final word in the dark.