Chapter 2: The Night I Disappeared

The bar lights flickered across the room.

Reds, purples, and flickers of gold danced along the walls, making everyone look more beautiful—or more lost—than they really were. The place smelled of old beer and wet jackets. My phone vibrated in my pocket with Tanya’s worried texts, but I didn’t check them yet.

I held the bottle of antacid in my hand, my whole body freezing cold.

I shivered from more than just the rain. Even inside, the chill stuck to my bones, and the little bottle pressed in my palm felt like a useless relic.

Playful, mocking glances from the people around landed on me.

Somebody snickered under their breath. A woman in a tight red dress eyed my wet clothes, then turned away, smirking at her friend. There was that look you get when you don’t belong—a reminder that kindness is often reserved for insiders only.

But what hurt the most was still Derek's impatient expression.

He couldn’t even be bothered to hide it. His lips pressed in a hard line, jaw tight, as if he was just waiting for me to disappear so his night could start again.

His stomach had always been weak; he needed to take his medicine after meals or he'd get stomach pains.

I remembered the times in high school when I’d find him doubled over on the couch, pale and sweating. I’d mix him ginger tea or hand him a heating pad, and for a moment, he’d let his guard down. I guess I kept hoping those moments meant something.

Just now, I called him several times but no one answered, so I had to ask around for the address of tonight's get-together.

I texted Tanya for help, checked Instagram for check-ins, and finally got the address from Derek’s cousin, who thought I was just trying to be a good fiancée. Maybe I was—maybe I was just desperate not to lose the only thing that felt like home.

When I was almost there, it started pouring rain.

The sky just opened up, soaking my hair and jacket before I even hit the crosswalk. Rain in Maple Heights never falls softly—it slaps you, soaks you to the skin, and dares you to keep moving.

It was rush hour, and Google Maps said it would take half an hour to go just two blocks.

Every traffic light glowed red, cabs honked, and the sidewalks filled with umbrellas that seemed to move in slow motion. I kept glancing at the antacid bottle, willing time to speed up.

Anxious to bring Derek his medicine, I ran through the rain.

By the time I reached the bar, my hair stuck to my cheeks and my dress clung to my legs. I must’ve looked like something out of a sad indie movie—a girl running for someone who wouldn’t even run for her.

Under the dim lights, Aubrey leaned against Derek's chest, playfully feeding him whiskey.

Aubrey had the kind of confidence you only get when you know the world will always treat you kindly. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and she laughed like she belonged there—like she belonged with him.

The man who always hated being touched was now letting the girl in his arms do whatever she wanted.

It hit me in the gut. Derek flinched if I so much as brushed his sleeve, but he let her feed him drinks and whisper in his ear. Maybe he’d always been saving his warmth for someone else.

When I pushed open the door, her glass was just brushing Derek's lips.

Time seemed to slow. The bar’s music faded into a muffled hum, and everyone watched the scene play out like a bad soap opera.

An indescribable intimacy and tension filled the air.

Even the bartender looked away, pretending to wipe a glass, trying to give them privacy I’d just shattered.

A wave of bitterness surged in my chest, but what flashed through my mind was Derek's face, pale with pain during his attacks.

I remembered the trembling hands, the sweat on his brow, and how he’d always push me away when I tried to help. It stung, how my concern turned to humiliation here.

I blurted out,

"He can't drink."

It came out louder than I meant, voice cracking. The music stopped, like someone had yanked the plug, and every head turned in my direction. My throat tightened, but I held my ground.

The room suddenly fell silent.

All the laughter and clinking glasses faded away, and I felt every eye on me. I wished I could sink through the floor, but all I could do was stand there, trembling, clutching the bottle.

Instinctively, I lowered my head, seeing my black flats, muddied and leaving a wet mark on the hardwood floor.

A streak of dirt and rainwater followed my steps—a trail of how far I’d come for nothing.

Suddenly, I felt ashamed.

The shame was a hot flush, crawling up my neck. I tried to straighten my coat, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I felt like a child, out of place at the grown-ups’ table.

But what made me feel even more humiliated was Derek's reply.

He didn’t hesitate, not for a second. He just looked bored, like I’d interrupted his favorite show with a commercial break.

He lounged on the sofa and clicked his tongue lightly:

"You really think you run this family, Lillian?"

His words hung in the air, and I could see Aubrey’s smirk, her gaze dancing between us like she was waiting for more drama.

"Why can’t you just mind your own business for once?"

A couple of his friends snickered. One guy elbowed another, and I heard someone whisper, “Yikes, that’s cold.”

He didn't even look at me, just raised his head and downed the whiskey in his glass in one gulp.

He drank it on purpose, I realized. Just to prove I had no power, no say—not even when it came to his health.

The words I hadn't spoken caught in my throat. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

I wanted to tell him he’d regret this, that someday he’d wish he hadn’t pushed me away. But my voice just dissolved, swallowed up by the music starting again.

I could only desperately hold back my tears, trying to make myself seem less pathetic.

I blinked and blinked, willing the tears to stop, but they kept sliding down my cheeks. I tried to hide behind my hair, but there was nowhere to go.

The others, seeing this, all quietly looked away, treating me as if I were invisible.

No one wanted to get involved. In this town, that kind of scene is as common as rain—someone always gets left out in the cold.

When they passed by, they carefully walked around me.

Their eyes slid past me like I was a wet spot on the floor—a problem for someone else to clean up.

A girl couldn't bear it and handed me a dry napkin.

She pressed it into my palm gently, her eyes apologetic, then glanced over her shoulder as if she expected trouble.

But she was immediately pulled away by her friend:

"Why bother with her."

Her friend hissed it out of the side of her mouth, and the two melted into the crowd, leaving me alone with the napkin and my shame.

Rainwater kept dripping from my hair.

I squeezed the napkin, wishing it could soak up the ache in my chest too. The room felt colder, the lights harsher. I shivered, wrapping my arms tighter around myself.

My throat burned with shame, but I managed a tight, grateful smile for the girl—hoping nobody else saw.

Scenes from the past flashed before my eyes.

Birthday candles at the Whitman house, long car rides with Mrs. Whitman’s laughter, Derek sitting by the window at Thanksgiving, refusing to make eye contact. Every memory shimmered in the rain and neon, sharper than before.

Suddenly, I understood. Derek didn't object to this marriage—not because he was willing, but because he simply didn't care.

The truth landed like a punch to the gut. I was an afterthought, a placeholder in a story he never wanted to write.

He didn't care about the agreement between Mrs. Whitman and Grandma Carol, nor did he care about me.

I’d always hoped the family history, the sense of obligation, meant something. But Derek was an island—untouchable, unreachable.

To put it bluntly, he disdained it.

He saw me as an inconvenience, a leftover from his mother’s guilt, a reminder of things he wished he could forget.

Because he disdained it, when others said I wasn't good enough for him, he kept silent.

He never defended me. Not once. Every time a snide remark was tossed my way, Derek let it land. He didn’t care enough to disagree.

Because he disdained it, all my concern was just meddling in his eyes.

Even when I tried to help, he saw it as interference—like I was the problem, not the solution.

Embarrassment, hurt, and anger twisted together, but in the end, it all turned into a strange calm.

The pain dulled into a hollow space in my chest. I stopped trembling. If this was the end, at least it would be my choice this time.

I slowly dried my hair and quietly placed the antacid on the table.

I set the bottle down right in front of him, a final, silent gesture. If he cared, he’d take it. If not, it’d just be another thing left behind.

Finally, I glanced at Derek.

He didn’t meet my eyes, not even for a second. It was like I never existed.

Without looking back, I left the bar.

I stepped into the night, rain soaking my skin, and for the first time, I realized I was finally free to disappear.