Chapter 3: Natalie’s Downward Spiral

In my previous life, three months before the SATs, Natalie fell for a blond guy named Derek. Everyone called him "that burnout with the band stickers on his bike."

Derek had dropped out of school early, never held a real job, sometimes rapped at bars, and hung out with a gang of troublemakers. His Instagram was full of skate videos and blurry late-night selfies from parking lots.

But Natalie thought he was cool and free-spirited. She said he reminded her of James Dean; I just saw another guy trying too hard to look lost.

She fell head over heels for him. It happened so fast—one minute she was complaining about her SAT essay, the next she was talking about running away to California.

From then on, she threw aside her dream of getting into NYU and spent every day running wild with Derek. Her homework sat untouched on her desk, college brochures collecting dust in the corner.

One day, I even saw her looking dazed as Derek led her out of a public restroom. The look on her face haunted me—half dreamy, half absent.

I didn’t want to think about what had happened. But the rumor mill in our town never rested, and soon everyone had their own theory.

That day, after hesitating for a long time, I told her mom about her and Derek. I remember sitting at their kitchen table, staring at a mug ring on the Formica, my hands clammy.

Natalie’s dad had passed away when she was young, and her mom cherished her more than anything. Mrs. Adams worked doubles at the hospital, still found time to make spaghetti on Sundays, and kept every art project Natalie ever made.

Her mom called the cops several times and even threatened to hurt herself before finally persuading Natalie to return to school. It got ugly—yelling late into the night, slammed doors, Mrs. Adams pacing the porch with her hands shaking.

When the test results came out, she did even worse than the year before and ended up at a second-tier college. Not the worst, but not the dream she’d talked about since she was twelve.

Years later, when we met again, Natalie had become a gentle and fashionable English teacher. Her classroom was filled with string lights and poetry posters, the kind of space that made even bored freshmen sit up a little straighter.

We naturally fell in love and got married. Our parents finally relaxed, thinking maybe things had worked out after all.

When talking about the past, she would still smile and say, “Caleb, thank you. Because of you, I was able to turn back from the edge.” She’d squeeze my hand, the gold band glinting in the kitchen light.

I always thought she realized how good I was, that she truly loved me. I believed it, right up until the moment it all shattered.

Until—our child was born. A Black baby.

Outside the delivery room, everyone stared at me, silently mocking me for being cheated on. The air felt thick, the fluorescent lights too harsh, like the hospital itself was in on the joke.

My mom was so furious she fainted on the spot. The nurses rushed in, but all I could do was stare at Natalie, who was shaking with laughter.

That day, Natalie’s crazed laughter echoed through the hospital. It bounced off the linoleum, sharp as glass.

“How does it feel, Caleb? Serves you right. Who told you to break me and Derek up?”

“I married you just to get revenge, so you’d never be able to hold your head up again.”

Her face was twisted with the joy of revenge. Her eyes glistened—wild, triumphant.

“Every single moment with you was disgusting.”

That night, I wandered the streets, devastated, unable to understand what I’d done wrong. I passed shuttered shops, neon signs flickering, my shoes scuffing the sidewalk in the rain.

Until a huge truck came barreling toward me…

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the high school classroom. The world smelled of chalk and dust again, and the slate was wiped clean—but my heart wasn’t.