Someone Else’s Groom

At eleven that night, Fiona’s call came right on time. Her voice on the other end was bright, carrying a hint of excitement. "Caleb, don’t wait up for me tonight."

I didn’t say anything.

As if feeling guilty, she quickly added, "My friends know I’m getting married. They want to throw me a last bachelorette night."

I knew that line too well. After my friend’s wedding, she had said the exact same thing seven times, which meant that under the excuse of a bachelorette night, she hadn’t come home for an entire week.

Through the phone, loud music and the shouts of a crowd spilled out, shattering the quiet of the night.

When I still didn’t respond, Fiona called again. "Hey… what’s wrong? Are you mad?"

Her tone was cautious, testing. She waited quietly for my reply.

I lowered my head and glanced at the watch on my wrist.

For some reason, the words slipped out. "It’s eleven."

Outsiders wouldn’t understand what that meant, but it was something only the two of us shared.

I knew it, and so did she.

It was a rule she had set back when we were deeply in love. Back then, she had just started working, and I was in a critical stage of my career. I almost always came home very late after business dinners.

One night, it was nearly midnight when I got home and found her curled up on the couch like a little cat. When she saw me, she had stumbled toward me in a daze, carefully testing the waters.

"Caleb… can you come home before eleven?"

We hadn’t been together very long at that point. At first, she had been lively and outgoing.

Then, because of my constant late nights, she gradually became suspicious and sensitive. I had looked at her damp eyes, the faint trace of cake cream still clinging to the corner of her mouth.

It was her birthday. I couldn’t bring myself to refuse, so I agreed.

During that time, she openly called me every night. "Caleb, it’s eleven. Time to come home." Her tone made her sound like a little housekeeper.

Later on, whenever she said, "It’s eleven", I would instinctively reply, "Time to come home." It became our unspoken game.

However, because it was so unspoken, I suddenly realized something. I didn’t know when that game had stopped. When exactly did it end?

It was the first time I had ever seriously thought about it.

Maybe it was when she officially passed her probation at work or when she started traveling frequently for business, or perhaps even earlier.

She hadn’t said those words in a long time, as if she was certain I would come home on time no matter what.

There was one thing she might have forgotten. That privilege had been something I gave her in a moment of softness.

If I wanted to take it back, I could do so at any time.