10 Fruitless Years

: How Easily a Lover's Heart Changes

Later, Warren Vaughn's cars got fancier and fancier, but he never brought me anything again. Maybe he forgot, or maybe he just didn't care.

It's only a little over ten minutes by car from his company to mine.

But I waited in the biting wind for two whole hours.

When he finally arrived and saw me waiting by the entrance, his tone was sharp. A flicker of irritation crossed his face.

"It's freezing out here. Couldn't you have waited inside? Why did you come out?"

'Was he worried about me?'

'Or was he just annoyed that I'd asked him to pick me up and ruined his fun?'

I couldn't tell.

"I just thought you'd be here soon," I said calmly.

He froze. He seemed to recall something, and his gaze darted away, unable to meet mine. He looked at me, a hint of guilt in his eyes.

"Sorry, the traffic was bad. I'm late. It won't happen again."

He reached out and opened his overcoat, about to pull me into an embrace.

I raised a hand, stopping him. The moment he'd gotten close, I'd smelled it: a mixture of unfamiliar body wash and a cloyingly sweet perfume.

I said coolly,

"Let's just get in the car. It's too cold."

Ignoring his frozen posture, I turned and got into the car.

When Warren Vaughn got in, he handed me a box. It was the ruby necklace he'd bought at auction last month, the same one where he'd gotten that ring.

"Come on, don't be upset. I had your gift ready for a while. I've just been so busy lately that I forgot about it."

He said it so casually, as if I were a petulant child throwing a tantrum over a present.

"Warren Vaughn, let's go out for our anniversary this year."

In previous years, he would always prepare the ingredients in advance and cook a huge spread. Even during our poorest years, the meal might have been smaller, but he never forgot the sense of occasion.

His eyes fixed on the road ahead as he started the car. He answered me dismissively, "Sure. Where do you want to go?"

'He agreed so quickly. Then again, this would save him more time to go appease *her*.'

"How about The Crimson Pot?"

The car suddenly skidded. I pretended not to see the way his fingers had unconsciously tightened on the wheel and said coolly,

"It started snowing. The roads are getting slick. You should slow down."

"Mm."

His expression was as composed as ever, betraying nothing. He asked, as if it were a casual thought,

"Why there, all of a sudden?"

"The new secretary at the office recommended it. She said their hot pot is amazing. Why?"

I asked, feigning ignorance.

Warren Vaughn let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief.

"No reason."

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

'I knew what he was nervous about. The girl is young; she likes things like hot pot and bubble tea. And that particular restaurant was one of her regular spots.'

I'd seen her check in at that very restaurant on her social media feed more than once.

In those photos, I could always make out a blurry figure in the reflection of the window across from her—the reflection of the man who had been with me since we were young, the man I knew better than anyone.

When we arrived, the place was packed. Despite the crowd, the owner greeted Warren Vaughn warmly. His smile faltered for a second when he saw me, but he quickly replaced it with an even wider, more enthusiastic one.

"You come here often," I said to Warren Vaughn.

"Some clients like to discuss business in this kind of setting," he explained.

'I couldn't help but marvel at how the ups and downs of the business world had made him so mature and reserved, so good at hiding his emotions. If I didn't know him so well, I never would have noticed the guilt hiding beneath that unflappable poker face.'