The Last Yes

No sooner had he spoken than Janet was by his side, clutching his arm.

"Walter, my foot is killing me. Can we speed it up?"

His suit jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her frail frame leaning into him.

Walter did not even glance at me, pale with pain, as he effortlessly lifted her into the car's front seat.

"Make sure you're comfy, and don't jostle your injury."

Once he had settled her in and was ready to hit the road, he finally noticed me.

"We grew up together, so she's like a sister to me. You head home."

I flashed him a wry smile. "Yeah, 'sister'."

I quickly added, just in case he thought I was ticked off, "You've played the forgiveness card, I'm not upset."

Walter looked like he wanted to say more but fell silent.

Janet let out a sharp hiss of pain, and he immediately turned to check on her.

"We've got to go."

With that, he drove off, leaving me standing at the hotel entrance, straightening my clothes.

Back at home, I pulled out the so-called forgiveness card from the side table.

The pile that used to be locked away in a safe was then just tossed in the drawer.

After stamping the 64th card, I dug out the divorce papers I had prepared for a while.

Frustrated by not knowing any lawyers, I decided to reach out to an old professor of mine.

"Professor, do you know any good lawyers for a divorce?" I asked hesitantly.

The professor seemed taken aback.

"A divorce? You're getting a divorce?

"I remember when you two first got together, you were the campus sensation. What's happened since then?"

He had even seen the moment we got engaged.

At this point, though, it felt like we could never return to those happier times.

It all began when he started putting someone else before me, leaving me in the dust.

When he and Janet were together, they were in their own world, and I was the outsider.

When they shared a bed without a second thought, that was the last straw.

The unwritten rule was clear: a third wheel spelled disaster for love. We had lost our way, and there was no turning back.

The professor sighed.

"I'll handle this. Someone will get in touch with you soon. Just tell them what you need."

I glanced at the last two chances for forgiveness I was holding onto and finally spoke, "Alright, thanks, professor."

Just then, Walter walked in.

"Who were you talking to? The professor?" he inquired, curiosity in his eyes.

He dropped a bag on the table, the contents hidden from view.

I ended the call and faced him, trying to keep my voice even. "Nothing important, just some questions."

Walter's frown deepened, his gaze probing. "What kind of questions? It's pretty late for that, isn't it?"

I met his gaze, my own brows knitting together. "Just about an experiment, nothing to worry about."

He finally relaxed, sinking into the couch and sliding the bag across to me. "Here, I got this for you."

It was from my favorite local pastry shop, a place he used to visit all the time to bring me treats.

The shop was an institution, a century-old favorite that always drew a crowd. Every time I craved a treat, he would be out the door at the crack of dawn, queuing up before the bakery's lights flickered on.

I hated to see him go through all that trouble.

However, he would just chuckle, give my nose a playful nudge, and say, "If you're hankering for a sweet, I'll be the one to snag it for you. Heck, if you asked for the moon, I'd find a way to yank it out of the sky."

We racked up a ton of sugary-sweet memories over the years.

"What the... What's this?"

I peeked into the bag, expecting a pastry surprise, but nope.

All I found was a dress smeared with frosting and a wadded-up bedsheet.

Walter caught my look, his expression twisting into something odd.

"Janet's dress is a mess, and the sheet's got a bloodstain that won't budge. She's got her reasons for not using cold water, so I figured you'd lend a hand."

He grew bolder with every word, his face setting into a stubborn mask.

"Come on, don't sweat the small stuff. You girls get it, right? If not, just use another 'forgiveness card'."

I was ready to let him have it, but the words got jammed in my throat.

I had just had surgery, and cold water made me feel worse. Had he forgotten? What was that about a 'forgiveness card'?

However, his nonchalant attitude made me bite back my retort.

OK. A 'forgiveness card'.

Walter's wardrobe was nothing but swanky, tailor-made suits, each needing the VIP treatment—hand-washed and pressed.

I must have been out of my mind, thinking my fussing was better than a trip to the cleaners.