I Found My Boyfriend Signing As Another Woman’s Husband Chapter 03

I Found My Boyfriend Signing As Another Woman’s Husband Chapter 03

Caleb didn’t come home that night.

I sat alone and finished the dinner I had made for two. By the time I forced down the last bite, the food was cold. The rice was cold too.

When I stood up, I walked into the bathroom, pulled his toothbrush out of the cup, and tossed it straight into the trash.

The next day, the high school where I taught had invited several university professors to give guest lectures.

My stomach acted up again. The pain hit so hard that cold sweat slid down the back of my neck. I hunched behind the podium, barely able to stay upright.

A colleague glanced at me and frowned. “Ms. Winslow, you look awful. Why don’t you call your boyfriend and have him take you to the hospital?”

I hesitated for a long time before finally dialing Caleb’s number.

It rang for what felt like forever.

When the call connected, it wasn’t his voice that came through. It was Kaylee’s. Sweet, light, and smiling.

“Clara? Caleb’s in the kitchen making chicken noodle soup for me. His hands are covered in oil, so he can’t pick up right now.”

She paused, her tone innocent and soft. “If it’s not urgent, can you call back later?”

Click.

The line went dead.

I held the phone to my ear, listening to the empty tone as I slowly slid down against the tiled wall of the bathroom. My stomach twisted into knots. Cold sweat soaked through the back of my shirt.

In the end, my coworkers practically carried me to the school infirmary.

On the bed next to mine, a girl had sprained her ankle. Her boyfriend carefully fed her warm water, murmuring over and over, “Hang in there, baby.”

I lay there beside them, holding up my own IV bag, pressing cotton against the needle mark after it was removed. Blood still seeped through, staining the tape a faint pink.

Second period that afternoon, the school hosted a guest lecturer for a history talk.

I dragged myself out of the infirmary, one hand against the wall as I made my way toward the classroom. My blood sugar had dropped. Black spots swam across my vision.

Just as I was about to collapse, someone caught me.

“If your blood sugar’s low, don’t push it. Sit down and rest for five minutes before you move again.”

His voice was calm, steady, unhurried.

I looked up.

The man standing in front of me looked to be in his early thirties. He wore a dark gray shirt, his features clean-cut, his expression carrying a quiet, scholarly air.

He didn’t say anything else. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a mint, and handed it to me. Then he turned and walked away.

It was the only kindness I received from a stranger during that time.

That night, I dragged myself home, half-dead with exhaustion.

There was an extra pair of leather shoes by the door.

Caleb was back.

He leaned against the kitchen doorway, looking at me with a slight frown. “Why do you look so pale? If you’re sick, why didn’t you tell me? You always keep everything to yourself.”

I looked at him.

There was a faint dusting of white powder on his collar.

Flour.

While he was making her chicken noodle soup, he had probably kneaded dough and baked bread too.

I let out a small smile. “I did call you. Kaylee Miller answered and hung up for you.”

His expression shifted. He stepped forward, reaching out to touch my forehead, but I turned my head and avoided him.

His hand hung awkwardly in the air before he pulled it back. “She had a heart episode today. It was serious. I couldn’t just leave her alone.”

He let out a sigh, his voice filled with the exhaustion of someone caught between two women. “Clara, stop making a scene.”

Stop making a scene.

The moment those words left his mouth, something inside my chest cracked open.

Slowly. Quietly. Tearing itself apart from the inside.

I turned and walked into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.

For the first time in three years, I made Caleb sleep on the couch.