After Ninety-nine Times

Instead of taking a cab, I walked home. By the time I got there, the sky was already dark.

I stood quietly at the doorway, staring at the photo of us sitting on the shoe cabinet. It was taken three years ago, during our trip to Southsea.

Annie was smiling so brightly back then, like her eyes were filled with stars. Now, those stars had all fallen on someone else.

A wave of helplessness rose from deep inside my chest. As I collapsed onto the couch, a buzz from my phone broke the silence. It was a message from Annie.

“The test results are out. Joseph’s fine. He just has a little hypoglycemia.”

I stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard for what felt like forever. In the end, I replied with a word.

“Okay.”

Another message popped up right after: “Let’s have dinner tonight. Same place as always.”

I should have said no, but when my phone lit up again and I saw she reserved my favorite seat by the window, my heart gave in. Seven years of habit were hard to shake.

Part of me still wondered, what if, just this once, she realized her mistake? What if she wanted to make things right?

Clinging to that last shred of hope, I went.

The restaurant was the same Italian place where we had our very first date. She was wearing the red dress I gave her and had put on makeup.

While stirring her cream of mushroom soup, she spoke gently, like old times. “About earlier today... I acted on impulse.”

I was quietly cutting my steak and said nothing.

“You know Joseph’s still young. There’s a lot he doesn’t understand. And what if something had actually happened–”

The sound of my knife scraping against the plate cut her off.

I looked up, face blank. “Annie, can we just get through one meal without talking about him?”

She paused, surprised, then gave me a soft smile. “Okay.”

The tension eased a bit after that. We talked about the movie coming out next week, the new head of her department, and even some embarrassing memories from college. For a few fleeting moments, it felt like we were back where we started.

That was until she suddenly said, “Can you eat a little faster?”

“Why?”

She glanced down at her phone. “Joseph said he’s craving the tiramisu here. I’m going to pack one for him.”

My fork clattered onto the plate.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

She was already waving down a server. “Yeah. He’s not feeling well today, so I figured it’d cheer him up.”

“What about us?” My voice shook. “Annie, today was the day we were supposed to get married, but you blew it off again for him. Now we’re finally here, sharing a peaceful meal, and all you can think about is taking dessert back for him?”

My tone must’ve crossed a line because her smile faded, and her brows knit together.

“Why are you acting like this? He’s a patient. What’s so wrong with letting him have something sweet?”

“A patient?” I let out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t you just send me his medical report? He’s healthier than I am!”

“Finn! Must you be so petty over a piece of cake?”

She slammed her hands down and stood up, the chair screeching against the floor.

People started turning to stare, and the server stood awkwardly nearby, holding a takeaway box. However, I didn’t care. After everything, the frustration I’d bottled up over the years was about to explode.

I shot to my feet too, staring coldly at the woman in front of me.

“Petty? I remember everything from the past seven years—your likes, your allergies, when you get cramps every month, and every little thing you ever said. And you? You can’t even remember that I’m allergic to strawberries.”

Annie turned pale. “So now you’re bringing up old fights?”

“Last week, you brought him a midnight snack. Last month, you skipped work to celebrate his birthday. How many more excuses are you going to give me?”

Her eyes darted away, avoiding my gaze. Rattled by the growing attention from nearby tables, she grabbed her bag in a hurry.

“I’ve had enough of this! Are you really getting jealous over a patient? That’s not so gentlemanly of you.”

She turned to leave, but not before grabbing the boxed tiramisu on the way out.

I stood there, staring at the unfinished steak on the table. It was medium rare and sprinkled with black pepper—her favorite.

The server approached, voice timid. “Sir… would you like that to-go?”

I shook my head, pulling out my wallet. “No. I’m done.”

On the walk home, the wind stung my eyes. Under the dim glow of the streetlight, I saw a new post on Joseph’s Instagram. It was a photo of him in his hospital bed, holding the tiramisu.

The caption read: “Thanks, Annie. This is the best comfort dessert ever.”

Underneath it, Annie had left a smiley face.

I shoved my phone into my pocket, heart hollow. It had been ninety-nine times or maybe more than that. However, whatever the number was, it was time to let go.