I left my cashier shift early, losing half a day’s pay so I could prepare. I bought ingredients for Brandon’s favourite meal, chicken parmesan, the same dish I used to make in our tiny apartment when we were happy. I found candles at the dollar store and set them on our dining table. I wore the navy dress from his graduation, the nicest thing I owned, and I’d spent an hour on my hair and makeup. The table looked beautiful, simple but beautiful. I’d even bought a small cake from the bakery, chocolate—his favourite.
I kept checking my phone. Brandon’s shift at the hospital ended at six. It was six-thirty, then seven, then seven-thirty.
At eight o’clock, I texted him: «Are you coming home soon? I made dinner.»
At eight-thirty, he replied: «Stuck at hospital. Emergency consultation.»
My heart sank, but I understood. He was a surgeon. Emergencies happened. I covered the food with foil and kept the candles lit.
At nine-forty-five, the apartment door opened. Brandon walked in, but he wasn’t wearing his scrubs or his white coat. He was wearing one of his expensive suits and he smelled like cologne and something else—perfume that wasn’t mine.