Returning the Keys, Taking My Freedom

I gave up the home my fiancé and I were supposed to buy together, and the realtor stares at me in surprise. "You've already paid the deposit. Don't you want to wait until your fiancé gets back before you make it official?" I smile and set the keys on the desk. "No. He's busy taking his first love skiing." Julian Harrow and I have been together for five years, and every winter, he goes to Valeria. He always calls it a business trip, but the photos he posts are of the snow-covered peak of Mount Veyra. Whenever I ask when he's finally going to take me there for our honeymoon, he always gives the same answer. "Next time." Then yesterday, I found the old camera he left at home. Inside were hundreds of photos of the same woman, captured in the same careful compositions against familiar backdrops of cherry blossoms, snow, and Mount Veyra. In five years, the only time Julian and I ever travel anywhere together is to the neighboring city to look at the house we're supposed to make our home. With my arm tucked through his, he tells me, "We don't need all that sentimental stuff. We're building a real life together." Now I stand inside the house I've spent months getting ready for us, and something inside me finally breaks. I burst into tears. The realtor cautiously holds out a pen. "Do you still want to back out?" "Yes." I wipe away my tears with a smile. My resignation has already been approved, and tonight is my last night in this city. Mount Veyra might not be coming to me. Even so, I can still walk away. Chapter 1 "Elena, you really backed out?" The call from Tessa Langford came through just as I walked out of the realtor's office. "I did." "You put down a 30,000-dollar deposit, and you just walked away from it? Does Julian know?" "He's in Valeria." "Business trip?" I didn't answer, and Tessa fell silent for a couple of seconds. "Elena, even if you two had a fight, you can't just give up on the house…" "I found hundreds of photos on his old camera. The same woman. The same mountain. Five years' worth of them." The other end of the line went quiet before she whispered, "Rosalie Vance?" Tessa didn't say another word. On my way home, a message from Julian Harrow popped up on my screen. It was a photo of a steaming mug of hot chocolate in a white ceramic cup, complete with a tiny deer painted on the side, accompanied by the text, "It's snowing in Bellmont. I'm freezing." I recognized that cup instantly. Julian had sent me the exact same photo the previous winter—same angle, same composition. When I'd asked him which cafe he'd gone to back then, he told me he'd simply ducked into some random place to escape the cold and couldn't remember the name. Except I'd already seen another photo tucked away on his old camera. Rosalie was sitting in that exact same cafe, smiling at the camera with an identical mug of hot chocolate beside her, a burgundy scarf wrapped around her neck—one I'd never seen before. Five years. Every winter, the same cafe, the same hot chocolate, and the same woman. Yet the photos Julian sent me were always strictly limited to food and scenery, never showing the person sitting across from him. When I let myself into the apartment and started changing my shoes, something in the shoe rack caught my eye. Next to Julian's sneakers sat a pair of white canvas shoes in a woman's size five. I wore a seven. Curiosity got the better of me. I bent down, pulled out one of the insoles, and found a small note tucked underneath. It read, "Jules, the last pair gave me blisters." Jules. We'd been together for five years, and I hadn't even known Julian had a nickname like that, let alone that he would let anyone call him by it. I slipped the note back where I found it, returned the shoes to the rack, and walked into the bedroom. Julian's laptop was still awake, displaying an open booking confirmation on the screen for Silverpine Ridge on February 14 for two guests. The booking was for a two-night stay at a secluded mountain lodge, complete with a private thermal pool and a seven-course dinner. Under special requests, he'd written, "Rosie's birthday." My birthday was March 9. Rosalie's was February 15. Last year, on March 9, when I asked Julian if he could have dinner with me, he claimed he had an inescapable work function. I'd waited until 11:00 pm that night before a message finally trickled through. "Just got home. Are you asleep? Happy birthday. I'll make it up to you." Make it up to me. It belonged in the same category as next time—just something he could promise because he never intended to follow through. I opened the cloud photo library synced to Julian's phone. Out of more than 3,000 photos, only 11 were of me, seven of which had been taken during our very first year together. Over the next four years, there were just four more. Then I found an album titled "Snowfall in Bellmont". Every photo inside was of Rosalie—dressed in a traditional Valerian winter dress, walking through freshly fallen snow, or standing before an old hillside chapel with her hands clasped together. Every shot had been carefully composed with soft lighting, flattering angles, and perfect framing, looking like something torn straight from a travel magazine. Whenever Julian took pictures of me, he just pointed the camera and clicked, never bothering with the angle or checking the lighting. Once, I'd complained, "Could you at least try to make me look good?" He had simply shrugged and said, "It's just a picture. It doesn't have to be perfect." Good enough. That had always been Julian's answer to almost everything when it came to me. My phone suddenly rang with a video call from Julian. I answered, and he appeared on the screen wearing a gray overcoat, standing in what looked like a hotel corridor. "Have you eaten?" "Yeah." "I'll be back the day after tomorrow. My flight's at three." "Okay." "You sound weird." "Just tired." "Get some sleep." He was just about to hang up when a woman's voice drifted in from somewhere behind him. "Jules, the car's here." Julian turned his head and said something, then looked back at me. "That's Rosalie. I've got to go." "Why is she at your hotel?" "Her room's next to mine. We're heading out for dinner." "Do you do this every year?" "Our trips just happen to overlap. Don't read into it." He smiled as he said it, completely at ease, as though he were explaining something so utterly ordinary that there was no logical reason for me to even ask. "Oh, right. I got you a fridge magnet. It took me forever to pick one this time." Then he ended the call. Numbly, I walked into the kitchen and pulled the refrigerator door open. Five souvenir magnets were stuck to the surface, all of them showing Mount Veyra—different sizes, different years. Chapter 2 Five years together, and that was everything I'd ever received from Valeria—five fridge magnets, while Rosalie got weekends at mountain resorts, carefully planned experiences, birthday surprises, and a nickname that apparently belonged only to her. My phone lit up again just as I was processing it, showing another picture from Julian of a deer-shaped fridge magnet still in its packaging. The message read, "Cute, right? Rosalie helped me pick it out." Even the gifts he bought for me somehow involved her. I typed out a question. "What did you get Rosalie?" My thumb hovered over the send button before I deleted the words one by one and sent a single, hollow reply. "Yeah." Two days later, Julian came home, rolling his suitcase through the door before reaching into one of the side compartments to hand me a small paper bag. "Your fridge magnet." Then he pulled out a much larger shopping bag and set it down by the entryway. "What's that?" "Something for Rosalie. A scarf. She said Bellmont has better designs." A corner of the scarf was peeking out of the bag. It was a cashmere scarf in a deep burgundy shade. I reached out to touch it. It was incredibly soft. The winter before, I'd told Julian I wanted a cashmere scarf, and he'd looked at me like I'd suggested buying something completely pointless. "Why do you need another scarf? Don't you already have a bunch in your closet?" I did have a bunch, but every single one of them I'd bought myself. "You bought her a scarf?" I asked. "She asked me to pick it up for her. It was no big deal," he said, walking into the living room to drop onto the couch. "I'm exhausted. The flight was four hours long." "When are you going to take me to Valeria?" He paused, looking confused. "Where did that come from?" "It didn't come from anywhere. I've been asking you for five years." "I'll take you there next time, once things settle down at work." Next time. That made 17 times. I didn't say anything else. Just before dinner, Julian's mother, Marianne Dyer, called me. "Elena, Julian's home, isn't he? You two really need to get moving on the wedding plans. People keep asking me when the invitations are going out." "We're still working on everything." "Oh, Rosalie came over last week and helped me choose the wedding favors. We narrowed it down to four options. I'll send you some pictures, and you can tell me what you think." My hand stilled around my fork. "Rosalie helped you choose our wedding favors?" "Of course. She knew you were busy with work, so she offered to help. Isn't that sweet of her?" I looked across the table at Julian. He was scrolling through his phone, completely absorbed in whatever was on the screen. "Marianne, you can always ask me about things like that. There's no need to trouble Rosalie." "Trouble? Oh, don't be silly. She's here all the time. Three of four times a month, at least. I see more of her than I see you." During the second year Julian and I were together, I'd suggested visiting his mother every week. "You don't need to go that often," Julian had told me. "Mom likes her peace and quiet." So I'd cut it back to once a month. Later, he'd told me, "You're busy anyway. Once every couple of months is plenty." Apparently, his mother had never disliked having company; she just hadn't wanted mine. Rosalie could show up three or four times a month, and somehow no one ever found her presence too much. "Marianne, I'll take care of the wedding favors." "Alright. But Rosalie picked out some lovely ones. At least take a look before you decide." After we hung up, I turned to Julian. "Did you ask Rosalie to help your mother with our wedding favors?" "She offered." "And you knew about it?" "Yeah." "Why didn't you tell me?" "What was there to tell? She was just helping out." "It's our wedding, Julian. Why is she helping plan it?" He frowned. "You're always working late. I figured you didn't have time." "Did you ever ask me?" "Fine. From now on, you can handle all of it yourself. Happy?" There it was. That edge of impatience. It always went the same way. First came "Don't read into it." Then, "What's the big deal?" And finally, "Fine, fine. Whatever you say." And somehow, nothing ever got resolved. My phone lit up again. Marianne had sent me a photo. Rosalie stood in her kitchen wearing an apron, holding a casserole dish fresh from the oven. She was smiling at the camera, warm and perfectly at ease. Beneath it, Marianne had written, "Rosalie made my pot roast. It tastes just like mine!" Rosalie looked more at home in that kitchen than I ever had. She knew which cabinet held the plates, which drawer the utensils were in, where Marianne kept the spices. She knew how Marianne took her coffee and what she liked for dinner. I'd been coming to that house for five years, and I still had to ask where things were, purely because Julian had told me there was no need to visit so often. Another message from Marianne popped up on my screen. Chapter 3 "Elena, I'm going to be completely honest with you. I've known Rosalie since she was a little girl. She and Julian grew up together, so they know each other inside and out. "You're a lovely girl, but taking care of people doesn't exactly come naturally to you. You could learn a thing or two from Rosalie." I turned my phone face down on the table. A moment later, Julian walked into the room. "Why'd you stop eating?" "I'm not hungry." He headed to the closet to grab his pajamas, and as he reached up, I caught a glimpse of a red velvet box sticking out of the inside pocket of his jacket. "What's that?" "Oh, this?" He pulled it out. "It's Rosalie's birthday present. A necklace." He opened the box for me. Inside lay a delicate silver chain with a cherry blossom pendant. A single letter had been engraved in the exact center of the flower—J for Julian. "It's custom-made," he said. "It took two months." My engagement ring had come from a website. When the package arrived, Julian had simply opened the box and slipped the ring straight onto my finger, despite my telling him I wanted us to go to a jeweler and choose one together. "A ring's a ring," he'd said. "There's no point making a whole trip out of it." I looked at the necklace again. "You had a necklace custom-made for her?" "It's her birthday. I wanted to get her something nice." "What did you get me for my birthday?" Julian actually had to think about it. "Didn't I send you some money last year?" "No." "Oh." He paused. "Guess I forgot, then. I'll make it up to you next time." Next time. Always next time. "Julian, you had a necklace custom-made for Rosalie, but you brought me back a fridge magnet. You celebrate her birthday, but you forgot mine. "You let her spend all that time at your mother's house helping with our wedding, while you've spent years telling me I don't need to visit. Does any of that sound normal to you?" Julian set the jewelry box down and sighed. "Here we go again. Rosalie and I have known each other since we were kids. What's wrong with doing something nice for her?" "And me?" "What about you? Have I not treated you well? We've been together for five years. We bought a place. We're getting married. What more do you want?" His voice rose slightly. "Elena, you and I don't need all that sentimental stuff. We're building a real life together. That's what matters." Sentimental stuff. The mountain lodge was sentimental stuff. The custom necklace was sentimental stuff. The birthday surprises were sentimental stuff. And somehow, Rosalie got all of it, while all I got was the promise of a real life together. "You're right." I switched off the light and lay down with my back to him. "We'll build a real life together." The next day, I got a message from one of Julian's old college friends, Miles Calloway. It read, "Elena, we're getting together Saturday night. Are you coming?" "What's the occasion?" "Nothing special. Just the old college crowd catching up. Rosalie will be there too." Rosalie would be there too. Of course she would. By the time Julian and I arrived at the restaurant Saturday night, Rosalie was already seated in the private dining room. She wore a white knit dress. Around her neck rested the necklace, the tiny J engraved into the pendant catching the light every time she moved. "Jules!" She waved at Julian, her voice almost painfully sweet. Julian walked over and took the empty seat beside her without a second thought. I followed and sat on his other side. "Hey, Mrs. Harrow!" Miles greeted me. "Don't call her that," Rosalie corrected with a light laugh. "They're not married yet." Miles turned to Julian. "You two set a date yet?" "Still figuring it out." "I hear Rosalie's been doing half the wedding planning for you. Your mom said she's practically living at her house these days." Rosalie lowered her eyes and stirred her drink, looking almost bashful. "I'm barely doing anything. Elena's just so busy with work, so I help out where I can." She said my name with all the warmth of a close friend while wearing a necklace my fiancé had spent two months having custom-made for her. "Rosalie, that necklace is gorgeous. Who gave it to you?" One of the women at the table leaned closer for a better look. Rosalie curled her fingers around the pendant and glanced at Julian. "Just a friend." "What kind of friend buys you something like that? That's custom, isn't it?" "I got it for her," Julian cut in. "It was her birthday. Just something I picked up." Something I picked up. He'd ordered it two months in advance. The woman looked from Julian to me. "You got Elena one too, right?" "Elena doesn't really wear jewelry." I did. He'd simply never bought me any, so he'd decided I didn't. Rosalie turned to me with an innocent smile. "You don't mind, do you, Elena?" "Not at all." Her smile widened. "You're so understanding." Chapter 4 Halfway through dinner, Miles decided everyone was getting too comfortable. "Alright, let's see how well the happy couple actually knows each other." He pointed at Julian. "What's Elena's favorite flower?" Julian thought for a moment. "Roses?" My fingers tightened slightly around my glass. "Lisianthus," I said. "Okay, terrible start." Miles laughed. "Her birthday?" "March…" Julian paused. "Ninth?" He got it right eventually. "And what's she afraid of?" Julian didn't even have to think about that one. "Nothing, really." He smiled. "Elena's fearless." Everyone laughed. I smiled too. I was afraid of the dark. I'd told him that during our first year together. We'd been walking home late one night when a power outage blacked out half the neighborhood. I'd grabbed his arm before I could stop myself. I'd been embarrassed enough to explain why. He'd teased me about it then. At some point, he'd forgotten. Miles shook his head. "Julian, you're embarrassing yourself. Let's try Rosalie instead." He turned to her. "What's Julian's coffee order?" "Latte. One sugar. Warm, not too hot." "What scares him?" "Thunderstorms. Lightning hit the old oak behind his house when he was little, and apparently he cried for an hour." Julian groaned. "You didn't have to tell them that." Rosalie laughed. Miles was already enjoying himself far too much. "Last one. What's the phrase he says all the time?" Rosalie didn't hesitate. "Good enough." The whole table burst out laughing. Miles slammed his hand against the table. "Rosalie knows Julian better than his own fiancée." "Well, we've known each other for ten years," Rosalie said with a smile. Ten years. She'd had ten; I'd had five. For a second, I almost found comfort in the difference—five years was only half as long, and maybe that explained it. Then I looked at Julian. He leaned toward Rosalie, laughing as he protested the thunderstorm story. She reminded him of some detail he'd forgotten, and his expression changed immediately. "No, no, that's not what happened." "It absolutely was." "The tree didn't even fall." "You still cried." "I was nine!" An ease settled between them, and something inside me ached far more than the necklace had. Rosalie knew he was afraid of thunder; I didn't. She knew how he took his coffee, what embarrassed him, what stories would make him laugh before she even finished telling them. I knew what time he left for work. Which shirts he reached for most often. That he kicked the covers off in his sleep and always forgot to charge his phone. For five years, I'd thought knowing those things meant I knew him. Maybe I'd only learned how to live around him. It wasn't that I'd never tried to know more. I'd asked, over and over. I'd asked him what he wanted for dinner, and he would say, "Whatever." I'd asked him where he wanted to go during weekends, and he'd reply, "Anywhere's fine." I'd asked him what he was like as a kid. "Nothing interesting," he had said. I'd asked him to tell me something I didn't know about him, and he'd merely said, "There's nothing to tell." Eventually, I'd stopped asking. I'd thought that was simply who Julian was—quiet, undemanding, not sentimental, a man who didn't care about birthdays or gifts, who hated a fuss and thought most things were good enough. But sitting there, watching him argue with Rosalie over a childhood story, his face animated and his eyes bright, I finally understood. Julian wasn't difficult to know. He had simply never let me know him. The dinner was almost over when I excused myself to use the restroom. Rosalie followed me in. "Elena." She leaned against the counter and touched up her lipstick in the mirror. "Can I tell you something? Don't take it the wrong way." I waited. "Jules can be thoughtless sometimes, but he isn't a bad person. You can't take every little thing he does so personally." "I'm not." "He told me you've been pretty emotional lately. That you kept arguing because you're uncomfortable with how close he and I are." For a moment, I said nothing. So he'd told her. The arguments we'd had behind closed doors, the questions I'd asked him, the things that hurt me—he had taken it all and handed it straight to the one person we were arguing about. Rosalie capped her lipstick. "Elena, I'm going to say something you probably won't like. If you can't trust him over something this harmless, I'm not sure getting married is going to fix anything." "He goes to Valeria with you every year. What exactly am I supposed to trust?" For the first time that evening, Rosalie faltered—only for a second, before she smiled. "Those are work trips." "Work doesn't take you to the same town every winter, or the same hotel. It doesn't leave hundreds of carefully taken photos of the same woman behind." Her smile stayed in place, but the warmth disappeared from her eyes. "Jules and I are friends, Elena. That's all we've ever been. If you're determined to turn it into something else, that's your problem." She picked up her purse and headed for the door, then stopped. "Oh, one more thing." Her eyes met mine through the mirror. "That wall in your new living room? I told Jules you should've gone with warm gray. He agrees. He thinks it works much better than the cream you picked." Then she left. I stood there staring at the closed door. The living room wall. I'd spent days choosing that shade of cream. I'd gone to the apartment myself and watched the painters put on the first coat, decided it wasn't even enough, and stayed until they'd finished the second. Julian hadn't come once. But somehow Rosalie knew what color I'd chosen. Somehow Julian had found the time to discuss it with her. And somehow, when the two of them disagreed with me, it was her opinion that mattered. I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water over my face before walking out. Julian was waiting by the door. "Come on. We're taking Rosalie home." "Can't she get home herself?" "It's on the way." Rosalie lived on the east side of the city; we lived on the west. In what world was that on the way? "You can take her. I'll get a cab." "Don't start. Just come with us." In the car, Rosalie sat in the passenger seat while I sat in the back. She flipped through the radio stations until she found one playing Valerian music. "Jules, remember this song? They played it at that pub in Bellmont last year." "Yeah. You started singing along." They both started laughing. Sitting in the back, I felt like an extra passenger in someone else's car. When we pulled up outside Rosalie's building, she got out, then bent down to look at me through the open door. "Get some rest, Elena." Then she turned to Julian. "Jules, don't forget about next week." "I won't." She shut the door and walked away. I moved from the back seat into the passenger seat. "What are you doing for her next week?" "Helping her move a cabinet." "She can hire movers." "Why waste money on that?" Last year, I'd asked him to help me move a single box of books, and he'd said his back was bothering him and told me to hire movers. But when Rosalie needed a cabinet moved, he was going over to do it himself. "Julian, have you ever noticed that you treat Rosalie better than you treat me?" He sighed. "We grew up together. Looking out for her is just a habit. But you're the one I'm marrying. Isn't that enough?" Chapter 5 I smiled. "Yeah, it's enough." Saturday morning, I made breakfast in the kitchen—oatmeal, hard-boiled eggs, and a small plate of pickles—his favorite. "Julian, can you stay home today?" He looked a little surprised. "I just want you to spend the day with me." "Sure. I don't have anything going on anyway." He smiled and sat down to eat. I sat across from him, trying to memorize his face. "Julian." "Hm?" "Do you love me?" His spoon paused halfway to his mouth. "Where's that coming from?" "I want to hear you say it. Just once." "I'm marrying you. What do you think?" "Getting married and being in love aren't the same thing." "What's gotten into you today?" "I just want to hear you say it." He set down his spoon and looked at me. "Elena, of course I…" His phone rang, and he glanced down at the screen. "It's Rosalie." "Don't answer it." "I'm just going to see what she wants." He swiped to answer. "She says a pipe burst at her place. There's water all over the floor." "She can call a plumber." "It could take an hour or two for someone to get there. Her whole place will be flooded by then." He stood up. "I'm going over to take a look. I'll be back soon." "Julian, you promised you'd stay home with me today." "I know, but this is an emergency. A pipe burst. I can't just ignore it." "What about me?" "What about you? You're fine." He always thought I was fine. Rosalie's burst pipe was an emergency; my broken heart wasn't. During the first year we were together, when Julian had told me he loved me for the first time, he'd said, "Elena, I want to spend the rest of my life with you." That day, he'd taken me to a little diner for burgers and promised we'd come back every year on our anniversary. The second year, he forgot. The third year, I reminded him. "It's just burgers," he'd said. "We can go another day. What's the difference?" By the fourth year, I stopped bringing it up; by the fifth, I didn't either. Julian never remembered again. "An hour, tops. Then I'll come back and spend the rest of the day with you." Julian put on his coat, grabbed his toolbox, and stopped at the door to look back at me. "Don't be mad." Three hours passed before I called him. "I'm almost done. The pipe's fixed, but there's water everywhere. I'm helping her clean it up." "When are you coming home?" "Soon." Another hour passed before he texted me. "Rosalie says thanks for letting me come over. She's buying me lunch. I'll be home after we eat." I didn't reply. Another message came through. "Go ahead and eat without me. Don't wait." I sat in the living room, staring at the breakfast on the table. The oatmeal had gone completely cold, and the yolks of the soft-boiled eggs had hardened. I got up and walked into the bedroom, opened the closet, and pulled out two suitcases. I really didn't have much in this apartment. My clothes filled one suitcase, while my books and everything else barely filled half of the other. In the bathroom, all I had by the sink was a toothbrush and a bottle of face wash. Rosalie had more things here than I did—a pair of canvas shoes, a jacket, a coffee mug, and a tube of lipstick. I slipped off my engagement ring and placed it on the coffee table. Beside it, I lined up the five fridge magnets. Then I left a note. "Julian, I already backed out of the house. I'm giving the ring back. You can have the five fridge magnets too. As for the honeymoon, find someone else to take." I pulled my suitcases to the entryway and looked back one last time. There was a coaster Rosalie used when she came over for tea. Her favorite strawberry yogurt sat in the fridge, and her white canvas shoes remained in the shoe rack. Everywhere I looked, there were traces of Julian and Rosalie. Everything that belonged to me fit into two suitcases. I pulled the door shut behind me without locking it. My ride was waiting downstairs. The driver helped load my luggage. "Where to?" "Northbridge Station." As the car pulled away from the apartment complex, I didn't look back.