Chapter 2: The Hospital and the Wife

I brought Chris his favorite dessert. Chemo is so bitter—he should have something sweet.

On the drive over, I stopped at the bakery he loved—the one on Main that still used real butter. The box was warm on my lap, and the radio played some sad indie song that matched the mood. The hospital reeked of disinfectant. I found Chris’s room.

He had lost so much weight, his eyes sunken, lying in the hospital bed looking barely human. Even the sunlight through the blinds seemed too harsh, turning his skin a washed-out yellow. His hands trembled when he reached for the blanket, and my heart clenched at how small he looked against the pillows.

His wife, Lillian, was by his side.

She perched on the edge of a cracked vinyl chair, her hair pulled back, looking tired but composed. She never had a kind word for me… Her lips pressed tight, eyes flicking over me like I was a stain she couldn’t scrub out. I always thought it was her showing up that ruined my fate with Chris.

I handed the dessert to Chris, trying to smile. "Chris, it’s still your favorite."

He tried to force a smile, which looked almost grotesque on his gaunt face.

But Lillian took the dessert right away and set it on the side table.

She pulled me out of the room, voice low: "Rachel, what are you doing here?"

Her nails dug into her palm as she gripped the doorknob. Looking at her composed face, I felt oddly relieved and answered loudly, "I want to take care of Chris."

"Rachel, do you have no shame? It’s been six years and you still won’t stop?"

Her anger set me off too. "If it weren’t for you, I’d be with Chris now. What kind of feelings can you get from a Tinder marriage? In my eyes, you’re the other woman."

But unexpectedly, Lillian’s anger faded. She just nodded.

"Perfect. We need more people to take care of Chris. If you help, I can finally get some rest."

I was stunned. What’s with everyone today?

It felt like I’d picked a fight and someone handed me a glass of water instead of a punch. The fire I’d meant to start with Lillian was doused by a bucket of cold water. I followed her back into the room, stiff as a board.

Lillian handed the dessert back to me, then pointed at Chris.

"Don’t you know what illness he has? He can’t eat this at all."

I bristled, hands balling into fists. He’s dying—shouldn’t he eat whatever he wants?

But the way Lillian looked at me—tired, resigned—made me hesitate. I bit my tongue, fighting the urge to snap back. Looking at the frail Chris, I swallowed my words.

Chris definitely wouldn’t want to see us fight.

I took the dessert, thinking if Chris wouldn’t eat it, I could bring it back for Derek.

"What are you standing there for? Feed Chris."

The thermos held homemade custard, not a big portion.

I scooped a spoonful and brought it to Chris’s mouth, grumbling, "Just this little? Can Chris really get full?"

But my hand was trembling, a spoonful of custard wobbling, and my breath caught as I tried to steady myself. The custard spilled onto Chris’s hospital gown.

I panicked, but Lillian calmly picked up a tissue and cleaned it up.

She didn’t say a word, just took the thermos from my hand and, as if coaxing a child, blew on each spoonful before gently feeding it to Chris.

Watching Chris’s Adam’s apple bob with difficulty, Lillian patiently waited, while I turned away, wiping my tears.

The beeping of the IV, the low murmur of nurses in the hall—all of it blurred as I fought the urge to run. So I just stood there, watching Lillian care for Chris, unable to do a thing myself.

When I was about to leave, Lillian went to the break room to wash the lunchbox.

I hovered by the door, awkward, hands stuffed in my coat pockets. She didn’t say goodbye to me either.

I wanted to tell her to make more food for Chris, but looking at her slumped back, I couldn’t get the words out.

After all, it was a Tinder marriage—no real feelings, no heartbreak.

That’s what I told myself, anyway, but her hunched shoulders lingered in my mind long after I left.