I Stopped Peeling Her Shrimp

I peeled her shrimp for three years. Then, in front of a whole table of people, she said, "He's not my boyfriend. He just does it because he wants to." I didn't say a word.

I just slid the plate of shrimp back to the center of the table and wiped my hands. My phone lit up. It was a text from my mother: "The new place is finally finished.

When are you bringing her over to see it?" I turned the phone face down.

After that night, she never again saw the car that used to wait for her after work every single day. 1 The steam from the seafood boil blurred the faces across from me.

It was the third time Sophie had nudged the conversation back to me. "William, you drive Chelsea home from work every single day.

What’s the real story with you two?" I was midway through peeling a shrimp, the shell cracking against my thumb.

Two seats down, Chelsea was staring at her phone, her thumb scrolling through texts, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "He's not my boyfriend." She didn't even look up.

Her voice wasn't loud, but all six people at the table heard it clearly. Sophie's mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut as she glanced my way.

Across the table, the clinking of glasses paused. Suddenly, the heavy bubbling of the shared pot in the center of the table seemed incredibly loud—"simmer, simmer".

I kept my head down, pulling the tender meat clean from the tail and placing it gently on the edge of her plate. That was the third one. Right then, her phone rang.

She answered it and immediately headed for the door, her voice trailing off as she stepped outside: "Chase? Yeah, is your stomach acting up again?

The medicine is..." The door swung shut. Sophie leaned in, lowering her voice. "William, what are you even doing?" I didn't answer.

I picked up my chopsticks, took the shrimp back off the edge of her plate, and dropped it into the serving dish in the center.

The discarded shells on my plate still carried the warmth of my hands. I took a long drag of my beer. It was freezing cold, burning all the way down to my chest. My phone vibrated.

It was a text from my mom, attached with a photo. A bright living room, a lush pothos plant sitting by a floortoceiling window, sunlight spilling across the light oak floors.

Underneath, she’d typed: "Sweetie, the renovations are done. Do you like the curtain color? Didn't you say she loves pale purple?

When are you going to bring her by to see it?" The curtains were a soft lavender.

Last month, I had taken three days off work and made six separate trips to the design district just to find that exact shade. I flipped the phone face down on the wooden table.

When Chelsea pushed the door open and sat back down, she was still smiling. "Chase has a stomach ache.

I need to drop some meds off for him in a bit," she said to Sophie, before turning her gaze to me. "William, can you drive me to the pharmacy in a minute?" In the past, my answer would have been an instant "sure".

In the past, I would have precooled the car to sixtyeight degrees, made sure there was a cold bottle of her favorite sugarfree sparkling water in the cup holder, and pulled up right to the curb.

But tonight, I just looked at her.

Her eyes were bright, her lips curved into a smile, but it was the exact same smile I’d seen three minutes ago—the one meant for the name "Chase" lighting up her screen. "I've been drinking.

Can't drive." I set my fork down against my plate. "You should call an Uber." She paused. It was barely a flicker of hesitation.

Then she shrugged and nodded. "Alright." She bent her head back over her phone. When dinner wrapped up, I trailed behind the group. The phone in my pocket buzzed again.

My mom: "Don't forget the builtin shelves in the spare bedroom.

You said she loves mystery novels, so I had the carpenter add two extra rows." The September wind slipped down my collar, sending a chill down my spine.

I stood beneath the streetlamp outside the restaurant, the drift of exhaust from a nearby street food cart stinging my eyes until they watered.

I dialed her number. "Hey, Mom." "Oh, sweetie! Did you see the photos?" "Yeah, I saw them." "Is it nice?

What do you think of—" "Let's just leave the apartment empty for now." Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. My mother didn’t push.

She simply let out a quiet sigh and said, "Okay. Whatever you think is best." I hung up and walked to the curb, watching the yellow cabs and rideshares roll past one after another.

No more sparkling water waiting in the passenger seat. I hailed a cab. I climbed in and gave the driver my own address. Not hers. For the first time.

In three years, the very first time. 2 The next morning, my alarm woke me at sixthirty, right on schedule. My head felt heavy.

I reached out to grab my phone off the nightstand—my routine had always been to text her first thing: "You awake?" My thumb hovered over the screen.

Our chat history was frozen three days back: "I'll pick you up after work tomorrow." "K~" I set the phone back down. While brushing my teeth, white foam dripped down my chin.

The face looking back at me from the mirror felt slightly unfamiliar, shadowed by dark circles under my eyes. I hadn't slept well. Not out of heartbreak, exactly.

But because of the sudden, staggering realization that every single habit I’d built over the last three years had revolved entirely around her.

Waking up at sixthirty was solely to ensure I’d be parked downstairs by seventwenty.

The Greek yogurt that always stocked my fridge was there only because she liked to grab one on the rare occasions she stopped by.

The soft throw blanket in my backseat was for when she complained about the autumn drafts. I opened the fridge. Three cups of Greek yogurt. Expiring tomorrow.

I pulled one out and peeled back the foil. I took a bite. Too tart. I actually hated Greek yogurt.

On my commute, my hands didn't automatically turn the steering wheel at the usual intersection.

I drove straight, crossed two traffic lights, and pulled directly into my office parking garage. It saved me forty minutes.

The detour I used to take every day—the extra nine miles just to pass her apartment building, waiting for her to step out of the lobby, open the passenger door, slide in, and say, "Let's go." Three years.

Every single workday. At least seven hundred times. I did the math. Seven hundred trips, nine extra miles each time. That was over six thousand miles.

Enough to drive coast to coast across the country and back. At my desk, I booted up my computer.

A calendar notification popped up in the bottom right corner: "Chelsea’s Company Anniversary—order flowers ahead." I rightclicked. "Delete." Claire walked past carrying two travel mugs and paused. "William, you're early today." "Yeah." She set one of the mugs on my desk. "Black coffee.

No sugar. I remember you saying you like it bitter." "Thanks." She took a couple of steps, then turned back. "Oh, by the way, the director looked over your quarterly proposal.

Said it looked great. You're presenting at the meeting next week." I took a sip of the coffee. The bitterness coated my tongue, sharp and grounding.

All day, my phone sat as quiet as a brick. At threethirty in the afternoon, a text finally popped up. Chelsea: "Are you not coming today? Stuck in traffic?" I stared at it.

I typed three words: "Busy with work." After hitting send, I scrolled up.

The entire thread was just me. "I'm here." "I'm downstairs." "Waiting outside." "It's raining, I brought an umbrella." "Picked up your package for you." Her replies were always monosyllabic. "K." "Cool." "Sure." "K." Three years of this.

I scrolled up through five screens of chat history.

There wasn't a single "Thank you." Not a single "I appreciate it." I locked the phone, the screen turning black and reflecting my face back at me. Neutral. No anger.

No lingering resentment. Just empty. At seven that evening, the phone buzzed again. Chelsea: "What about tomorrow?" I didn't reply.

I tossed the phone onto the sofa, turned on the TV, and picked a random channel. A commercial for laundry detergent came on, a woman smiling warmly at the camera.

I turned the volume up two notches. Just enough to drown out any further vibrations. The next day, I didn't go. Nor the day after that, or the day after that. A week went by.

The Greek yogurts in the fridge expired. All three went down the kitchen sink. I folded the blanket from the backseat and shoved it into the bottom of a storage bin in the trunk.

I reset my alarm to sevenfifteen. An extra fortyfive minutes of sleep every single day. It felt surprisingly good. 3 On the eighth day, she called. It was tenthirty at night.

I had just stepped out of the shower, water dripping from my hair. Her name flashed on the screen three times before I slid to answer. "Hey." "William, what have you been up to?

You aren't picking up my calls or answering my texts." Her tone wasn't frantic or worried. It sounded more like someone asking a plumber why he was late for a scheduled appointment.

I rubbed the towel against the back of my neck, cold droplets sliding down under my collar. "I've been busy." "With what?" "A project at work." The line went quiet for a beat. "Oh... well, can you pick me up tomorrow?

Chase is taking me to a play this weekend, and I wanted to leave a change of shoes in your car." My grip tightened on the towel until my knuckles went white.

Her logic was always so flawless—I was the utility; Chase was the destination.

In her mind, there was absolutely no contradiction there. "I have a meeting tomorrow," I said. "You'll have to take a cab." "Oh." She didn't push. "Okay then.

Good luck with work." She hung up. Swift and clean. Like every phone call we'd had over the last three years—she never lingered a second longer than necessary.

I sat on the sofa, the dampness from my hair slowly soaking through the back of my tshirt. The phone rang again. For a split second, I thought she was calling back.

But the caller ID wasn't hers. It was my mom. "Sweetie, you're still up?" "Yeah, just finished showering." "So... Mom wanted to tell you something.

Please don't be upset." "What is it?" "That apartment... those mystery novels on the shelves in the spare bedroom.

I boxed them up and took them out today." "Okay." "I put them in your old room back home. Don't think of me as an intrusive mother...

I just felt like having all those brandnew books sitting there collecting dust was such a waste." Her voice was tentative, cautious.

She was walking on eggshells around me. "That’s fine, Mom." "Really?

You're not upset?" "Not at all." I looked down, watching the water droplets on the hardwood floor slowly spread. "Actually, if you know anyone who likes those kinds of books, just give them away." My mom let out a soft breath, her relief palpable. "Okay, sweetie.

I'll do that." The weekend came. A new post popped up on my feed.

It was Chelsea—a neatly arranged photo grid: theater tickets, artful latte foam, and a man's hand resting casually on a steering wheel, a sleek watch peeking from his cuff.

The caption was just one word: "Weekend." That wasn't my hand.

I have a faded scar on the side of my right middle finger—a souvenir from a rough basketball game back in high school that never quite went away.

The hand in the photo was smooth, clean, with perfectly manicured nails. In the comments, someone screamed: "Omg who is he?!" Chelsea replied with a single blushing emoji.

I scrolled right past it. Like scrolling past an ad. On Monday, Claire tapped the partition of my cubicle. "William, team dinner after work.

You in?" "Sure." She raised an eyebrow. "Wow, that was fast.

Usually, you tell me you have plans." Usually, I had to leave by five o'clock to fight traffic and be downstairs by six to pick up Chelsea. "I used to have things to take care of," I said. "Not anymore." Claire didn't pry.

She just smiled and walked back to her desk. We grabbed some drinks at dinner that night.

Claire sat next to me, her voice soft under the ambient noise of the restaurant. "You look much better lately." "Do I?" "Yeah.

You used to always look like you were racing against a clock.

You seem... lighter now." I clinked my glass against hers. "Cheers to that." On my way home, my phone buzzed in the console.

Chelsea: "William, my laptop screen just went completely blue. Can you come over and take a look?" It was 11:40 PM.

In the past, I would have replied "Give me twenty minutes", thrown on a jacket, driven the nine miles, and worked on it until the early hours of the morning.

Tonight, I typed four words: "Try restarting it." I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. I didn't wait for a reply. I got home, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed.

My alarm was still set for sevenfifteen. The last image in my mind before I closed my eyes wasn't her face. It was the photo my mother had sent.