Too Heavy for Tears, the Arrogant Cripple Broke Down Chapter 07

Too Heavy for Tears, the Arrogant Cripple Broke Down Chapter 07

Life moved slowly in the small town.

I started work at eight in the morning, took a two-hour lunch break, and finished at five thirty.

There were no more nights spent working into the early hours, no more glasses of water knocked to the floor whenever I brought Evan his medication, and no more days spent weighing every word for fear of setting someone off.

After work, I often walked around town.

Near the edge of the town stood a twenty-year-old diner where a slice of cherry pie cost three dollars.

I developed a habit of stopping there for a slice every evening after work.

The comment feed still appeared occasionally, but the comments became fewer and shorter.

[The female lead looks so much healthier lately.]

[Yeah. She’s gained a little weight. It looks good on her.]

[She smiles more now. I don’t remember seeing her smile this much when she was with the male lead.]

[This is what she was always supposed to look like.]

One evening, Ryan texted me again.

Ryan: [Evan hasn’t been doing well lately.]

—

Ryan: [He sent everyone away and won’t let anyone come to the house.]

Ryan: [Mrs. Dawson says he only eats once a day.]

I stared at the messages, typed a reply, and deleted it.

After doing that several times, I finally sent a few words.

I replied: [I understand.]

After a while, Ryan replied: [Aren’t you going to do anything?]

I replied: [What can I do?]

It wasn’t a rhetorical question. I was genuinely asking myself.

I was no longer the person who would rush to Evan’s side in the middle of the night the moment I heard he was struggling.

Even if I went, what would it change?

I would back down once and comfort him once. Then what?

There would be another breakup, another test, and another glass of water knocked to the floor when I brought him his medication.

I didn’t want to repeat that cycle anymore.

The next day was the weekend. Mom went to play bridge with Carol, leaving me home alone.

While organizing the closet, I found an old sweatshirt at the very bottom.

It was gray, with a loose, stretched-out collar.

—

It belonged to Evan.

I had no idea when it had been packed into my suitcase.

I lifted it and breathed in its scent.

The smell of laundry detergent had already faded. Nothing remained.

I folded the sweatshirt and set it aside.

I neither threw it away nor put it on.

That afternoon, the building manager called to tell me I had received a package.

I went downstairs and found a small cardboard box with no sender’s name.

Inside was a photograph.

It showed the Tetons turning gold at sunrise.

Evan and I had taken it during our trip to Wyoming three years earlier.

In the picture, he was sitting in his wheelchair while I stood behind him with both hands resting on his shoulders.

We were both smiling.

A short message had been written on the back in black ink.

[I’m sorry.]

The handwriting was unsteady, as though he had tried to write it many times before finally managing to put the words on the photograph.

—

I held it for a long time.

I didn’t cry.

I simply turned the photograph facedown and placed it in a drawer beside the gray sweatshirt.

Then I closed the drawer and went to the kitchen to make myself some mac and cheese.

Several comments flashed in front of me.

[The female lead didn’t cry. She really has moved on.]

[Leave the photograph in that drawer and never take it out again. Keep moving forward.]

[The male lead’s hand was probably shaking when he wrote that apology, but some words come too late.]