Chapter 2: The Other Woman's Shadow

When I saw the news of Natalie Brooks’s divorce on Facebook, I knew it was over between Derek and me.

It popped up as a notification while I was wedged between a pyramid of Honeycrisp apples and the discount flower buckets, the overhead lights buzzing faintly. Her name—Natalie Brooks—stood out like a beacon. My chest tightened, and I felt a weird sense of finality, as if someone had drawn a line under our story. My grip on the cart handle went white-knuckle.

Of course, it wasn’t just me—everyone thought so.

Within an hour, my phone was full of notifications. Even people I hadn’t spoken to since college were posting about it. It felt like the whole town was weighing in, as if Derek and I were characters in their favorite reality show.

I saw dozens of comments under that post: friends, old classmates, business partners of Derek’s.

Some used GIFs and emojis, like they were toasting at a bar, raising virtual glasses to Natalie’s newfound singlehood. It was both funny and painful.

They wrote:

"Natalie, congrats on being single again! When are you coming back?"

"Yeah, someone’s been waiting for you a long time."

It was like watching people at a high school reunion gossip over punch. They couldn’t help themselves.

These people had always kept their distance from me.

At charity auctions and neighborhood potlucks, they’d give me a courteous nod, call me Mrs. Thompson, then find any excuse to turn away. Sometimes their smiles looked pasted on, like they were keeping up appearances just as much as Derek was.

Whenever I went to events with Derek, they’d politely greet me as Mrs. Thompson, then quickly look away, not wanting to say another word.

I became skilled at making small talk with strangers over cheese platters, careful never to mention Derek’s past. It always hung there, unspoken.

But sometimes, when our eyes met, I could see it clearly—the way people look when their team loses the Super Bowl in overtime.

It was the same look people get when they hear a favorite band broke up: a mix of nostalgia and disappointment, as if I was just the opening act for the real headliner.

Yeah. In movies and stories, who doesn’t want to see the handsome guy and the beautiful girl end up together? There’s already too much regret in real life.

Sometimes I’d imagine our lives on the big screen, the soundtrack swelling as the star-crossed lovers reunited. But reality is rarely so neat.

Derek and Natalie were just that kind of perfect pair.

Even their names sounded like they belonged together, as if the universe had written them in the same breath. Derek and Natalie—everyone said it, everyone believed it.

They grew up together in Maple Heights, went to school together, and naturally fell in love. Everyone around them said they’d definitely get married—if Natalie hadn’t married someone else first.

I pictured them at the school carnival, riding the Ferris wheel, sharing popcorn on the football bleachers. It was the kind of love story that made everyone else feel like a footnote.

I once saw a photo of Derek and Natalie at his mother’s house. She was beautiful, skin fair as porcelain, standing delicately at his side, her eyes full of laughter. Anyone who saw it would say how well-matched they looked.

The picture was tucked inside a floral photo album, surrounded by snapshots of graduations and Thanksgiving dinners. Even I couldn’t deny how radiant she looked, her hand resting lightly on Derek’s arm.

His mother sighed, saying, "I really don’t know what Natalie was thinking, going overseas and marrying someone else. Poor Derek..."

She stopped there, but I understood what she meant: poor Derek lost his true love and, in his confusion, married me instead.

The subtext was as loud as the old clock ticking in the hall. I just smiled politely and busied myself with folding napkins.

To him, she was the woman of his past—a wound that had already scabbed over. He wouldn’t bring her up on purpose, nor did it hurt anymore. But when he thought of her, he’d still fall silent.

At family dinners, his gaze would sometimes linger on the fireplace mantle, where that old photo sat, his words trailing off. I learned to fill the silences with talk of weather or work.

They had seen him fight for her, get jealous, get sad, and in the end, all that passion came to nothing.

There were stories—everyone in town seemed to know them. Derek once drove all night to Chicago just to see Natalie for an hour. He’d gotten into a shouting match with her college boyfriend, then sulked for weeks. All of Maple Heights watched the drama unfold like a series on Netflix.

So, when they looked at me and Derek, there was always something missing.

It was like we were the after-credits scene, the story already over before it even started.

But it wasn’t that Derek treated me badly.

He wasn’t cruel. If anything, he was scrupulously polite—never raising his voice, always careful with his words. I never felt unwelcome, just unchosen.

He was always proper. Wherever we went, he gave me the respect due to Mrs. Thompson.

He’d pull out my chair at restaurants, then tip the valet with a crisp twenty, his manners as polished as his shoes. He’d walk me to the car after parties, nodding to the valet with that practiced smile. Even strangers thought we were a picture-perfect couple.

When we visited his family home for dinner, he’d hold my hand and walk with me in the backyard afterward. When I twisted my ankle, he’d crouch down, turn his back to me, and tilt his head slightly—under the porch light, he even seemed a little gentle.

That night, the air smelled of fresh grass and rain. His back was warm beneath my palms as I climbed on, feeling a strange sense of comfort in his quiet strength.

He clicked his tongue. "Hop on."

I laughed, surprised, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. For a moment, we almost felt like any other couple, shadows stretching across the lawn.

I often worked late into the night. He’d bring me a cup of milk, waiting by my side, leaning lazily against the wall, tapping lightly on my desk. "Hurry up and drink. I still need to wash the mug."

He’d roll his eyes and add, "You’re the only person I know who can make a glass of milk last an hour."

He never lost his composure in front of me. He was always calm, always in control.

Even when I was upset or anxious, he’d listen quietly, hands tucked in his pockets, nodding at the right moments. It was a comfort and a barrier, both.

Even in bed, when the corners of his eyes turned red in our most intimate moments, he would just smile, as if conceding, and call my name in a tone so cool it was almost distant.

Sometimes I wanted him to break—just once. To let the wall crack. But all I ever got was that same, steady gaze.

"Lillian."

"Let’s just stay like this, all right?"

He’d brush a strand of hair from my face, almost absentmindedly. The room would be quiet, the only sound our breathing and the hum of the air conditioner. Part of me always hoped for something more.

His first love had already married someone else, and he had married me. So he told me, let’s just stay like this.

It was a compromise, not a promise. And I accepted it, because it was all I was ever offered.