Chapter 4: Noodles and Goodbyes

6

The night was cold, and I went back to the bedroom early. On the table was a bowl of birthday noodles—as always, two little greens and a sunny-side-up egg.

Every year, Derek would cook the noodles himself and watch me eat. I figured, after sulking for so long this year, he wouldn’t bother. But the noodles were still hot.

Tonight, though, I was drained and had no appetite. I picked up the fork, then set it down. The light over the table was dim, the radiator humming quietly, the house settling in for the night.

The steam from the noodles curled up, blurring my vision. I blinked hard, swallowing down more than just food.

I heard Derek’s stiff voice behind me: “Eat it all—don’t cut the noodles.”

If you don’t cut the birthday noodles, you’ll live a long life.

I tried to sound cold. “I ate too much at the party. I really can’t eat anymore.”

Derek’s voice fell, disappointed. “Then just one bite, for good luck.”

I looked at him. “I can’t even eat one bite.”

Derek’s anger flared. “Rachel, I spent so long making this. Must you argue with me?”

A wave of bitterness rose in my chest.

I know he spent a long time making it. I know he’s been busy with work and still made time for this bowl of noodles—it’s a lot. I know he loves me.

But the more he shows it, the more I can’t stand it.

I can’t bear for him to be sad, can’t bear for him to be upset. I don’t even dare to mention my illness. He still thinks I’m just weak from a cold. As I stare at the bowl, the steam fogs my glasses, and I realize that sometimes love means keeping your heartbreak to yourself, even as you wish you could share it.

As Derek’s footsteps faded down the hall, I stared at the untouched noodles and wondered if he’d ever forgive me for leaving first.