On Our Anniversary, He Called Her Name Chapter 04

On Our Anniversary, He Called Her Name Chapter 04

Four cardboard boxes sat in the rental apartment.

I opened the last box and stuffed the clothes inside into the wardrobe.

The wardrobe came with the apartment, an old wooden thing whose doors wouldn’t shut properly. If I put too many clothes in it, they bounced right back out.

My phone lay on the bed, screen lit.

The movers had just left, and the room was quiet.

I sat on the floor, leaned against the bed, took out the divorce certificate, looked at it again, then shoved it back into my bag.

I grabbed my phone.

The notification on social media was annoying, so I tapped it open, scrolled down a few posts, and saw the photos River had posted.

Her and Shew.

They stood in a restaurant. A cake sat on the table with candles stuck in it, and she clasped her hands together, smiling at the camera.

The caption read: A belated anniversary.

I turned my phone face down on the bed.

A few seconds later, I picked it up again.

I took a photo.

The white wall of the rental.

The cardboard boxes stacked in the corner.

The clothes spread out across the floor.

Then I wrote four words.

Free from a nightmare.

Post.

I tossed the phone onto the bed and went to unpack the kitchen box.

Household items had been wrapped in newspaper.

I took them out one by one, wiped them clean, and placed them in the cabinets.

My phone rang.

I ignored it.

It rang again.

I still ignored it and kept cleaning.

The phone kept ringing.

I set the things down, walked over, and picked it up.

Seventeen likes. Eight comments.

Coworker A: You moved?

Coworker B: Congrats!

A few old classmates had left memes with thumbs-up emojis.

I scrolled down.

Then I saw Shew’s comment.

Before I could read it clearly, his call came in.

I answered.

“What is that post supposed to mean?” His voice was sharp.

I held the phone and walked to the window.

Outside was an older apartment complex. Someone was airing quilts downstairs, and two old ladies sat under a tree chatting.

“What do you mean?”

“Free from a nightmare,” he said. “Who are you calling a nightmare?”

I smiled faintly.

“Who do you think?”

He went silent for two seconds.

“What’s wrong with you?” he said. “You agreed to the divorce. You prepared the agreement. I never forced you from beginning to end. Who are you trying to impress with that kind of post?”

I didn’t speak.

“Delete it,” he said. “Delete it right now.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why do you want me to delete it?” I asked. “What are you scared of?”

He went silent again.

River’s voice came from his end, very soft. I couldn’t make out what she said.

Shew’s voice moved farther away.

“It’s fine. Sit down.”

Then his voice came close again.

“You’ve misunderstood her for three years. That’s enough. We’re divorced now, so stop doing this.”

I leaned against the window and watched the two old ladies downstairs.

They seemed to be arguing.

One pointed at the other, while the other waved a hand and turned her head away.

“What did I misunderstand about her?”

“She never did anything,” he said. “You imagined all of it.”

“She never did anything,” I repeated. “Then why did you just tell her to sit down and not come over?”

He said nothing.

“She saw you calling me,” I said. “Did she ask what happened again? Did she say it was okay, that she understood? Did she tell you not to blame me because she was fine?”

“That’s enough.”

“What did I say? I’m just guessing what she would say. After three years, I can recite every line she uses.”

He hung up.

I looked at the screen.

Call ended.

One minute and forty-seven seconds.

The social media notification lit up again.

I tapped it open and finally saw his comment.

“Who’s the real nightmare is still up for debate.”

Under it, River replied with an emoji covering its face and laughing.

Then four words.

Don’t be like that.

I stared at that comment for a long time.

My phone rang again.

This time, it wasn’t him.

It was Fate Dale.

Fate was a friend I had grown up with. Later, he went out of town for college. After he came back, he opened a studio, but we only saw each other a few times a year.

The last time had been during the holidays.

He brought me a box of pastries and said he had bought them on the way.

“What nightmare did you get free from?” he asked.

I typed back.

Nothing.

He replied instantly.

I saw Shew’s comment. What happened?

After thinking for a moment, I typed, I got divorced.

The other side showed “typing” for a long time.

In the end, he sent one word.

Oh.

Then another message followed.

Have you eaten?

I looked at those words.

Suddenly, I remembered that over the past three years, whenever I posted on social media, no matter what I posted, he always asked the same thing.

Have you eaten?

Sometimes I said yes.

Sometimes I didn’t reply.

The next time, he would still ask.

I didn’t respond.

I put my phone down and kept unpacking the kitchen.

There were still too many things to handle, and everything felt rushed.

My phone lit up again.

Fate: I’m at the entrance of your complex. Which building?

I stared at the message for two seconds.

Then I typed back.

How do you know where I live?

He replied instantly.

The background in your post. I recognized it. That crooked tree. Only your complex has one like it in the whole city.

I walked to the window and looked out.

There really was a strange tree by the entrance, leaning at an angle for twenty years, though I couldn’t tell if it was still alive.

A man stood under the tree in a gray hoodie, holding a plastic bag, looking up toward the building.

I opened the window and waved at him.

He saw me, waved back, and walked this way.

Looking at his back, I suddenly remembered something.

Three years ago, on the day I got married, he had stood under that same crooked tree.

That day, he watched the wedding car drive away.

Later, he sent me a message.

Are you happy getting married?

I never replied.