I Confirmed Cambridge While He Was Laughing With Her Chapter 08

I Confirmed Cambridge While He Was Laughing With Her Chapter 08

Day forty. My birthday. I told nobody.

I arrived at the library in the morning, and Louis was already sitting at our usual spot. A latte sat on

the table, alongside a small box.

“How did you know it was my birthday?”

“I glanced at your form the other day.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry for snooping.”

Inside the box was a pair of pressure–relief earplugs.

“You mentioned long flights wipe you out. This brand gets great reviews.”

I had only mentioned it once, and he’d held onto that detail.

Silas had known about my ear pain for two whole years. He’d never once bought me earplugs.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Consider it mandatory birthday protocol.”

“What am I supposed to say then?”

“Say: Louis, you’re the best.”

I laughed softly. “Louis, you’re the best.”

He laughed too, ducking his head to read his book, the tips of his ears flushing pink.

Back at my flat that evening, I opened my phone.

A message waited from Silas: [Happy birthday, Jennifer.]

Beneath it was a photo: a matcha cake, lopsided piped cream spelling out Happy Birthday Jenny.

He called me Jenny. For two years dating, he’d always called me Jennifer, and Martha was always

Mattie. Only now that we were broken up did he use that soft nickname.

Another line sat underneath: [I baked this myself. It’s ugly, don’t laugh. I dug through three drawers to find your old recipe.]

He’d baked a cake, following the recipe I’d left behind.

Once I’d baked that very same cake for our anniversary, and he’d given half of it to Martha. Now

he’d learned to bake it for me–yet I was thousands of miles away and would never taste it.

I studied the photograph for a long time. The cake really was messy. Cream smudged unevenly

across the surface, the handwriting crooked.

He had never cooked a day in his life. This was the very first cake he had ever made, for someone

who would never take a bite.

My finger hovered over the text input box for ten seconds. At last I closed the chat window.

It wasn’t that I felt nothing. But fleeting warmth couldn’t erase the public humiliation, the forty–seven–person poll, the crude drawing on the bulletin board, every single time he’d chosen

Martha over me. One cake couldn’t mend two years of hurt.

I set the pressure–relief earplugs Louis had given me on my nightstand.

Small, light. Yet holding them in my hands felt far more solid than that

three–thousand–two–hundred–dollar necklace ever had.

On day forty–five, Martha sent me a string of messages. I hesitated for a long time before opening

them.

[Jennifer, it’s Martha. There’s something I’ve needed to say.]

[What happened at Pre–Orientation Cadre Camp, I know I went way too far. Believe me or not, I

really thought it was just a dumb joke back then. I never imagined it would spiral like that.]

[I admit I made that poll too. I truly didn’t mean real harm, I just have a big mouth.]

[Silas fought with me over you, said he doesn’t want me contacting him anymore. I don’t blame

him. It was my fault.]

[Jennifer, I’m so sorry.]

I read it three times and set my phone down.

No real harm. Yanking someone’s bra strap in front of a crowd, starting a group poll guessing

someone’s bra colour–no real harm. Hurt doesn’t need intent to leave a mark.

Still, she had apologized. Her apology had come forty–five days too late–though slightly earlier

than Silas’s.

I didn’t reply. Not because I refused to forgive. Some things simply needed no response. It was

time to turn the page.