So-Called Lasting Love Was Only Another's Leftover Warmth

Ever since I was a child, I've had a strange ability.

When I touch someone's skin, I can feel the temperature of their emotions.

Concern is warm. Dislike is cool.

And burning love runs scalding hot.

Ten years with Jerome Gilbert, and his palm had always stayed lukewarm.

I chalked it up to being an old married couple and never thought twice about it.

The only thing that ever puzzled me was the day my sister got married.

My fingertips brushed Jerome's wrist, and the heat made me pull back.

That was three years ago. Then my sister came home for a short visit.

Jerome slipped out partway through the family dinner. I followed, and in the stairwell I heard my sister crying.

"Enough! Just to make me give up, you're going to bury yourself at my little sister's side for the rest of your life?"

His voice came out hoarse.

"What am I supposed to do? She's your own sister. We can't keep going down this road."

I leaned against the wall, my knuckles white.

So the heat that night hadn't been him being happy for me.

It had been him saying goodbye to her.

My phone lit up.

A reminder popped up on the screen: "7 days until the wedding."

I stared at it for two seconds, then called the hotel.

"Hi. I'd like to cancel a wedding."

Through the gap in the door, Jerome had his back to me.

Both hands braced against the wall, forehead pressed to the tile.

My sister's eye makeup had smeared, but she kept glaring at him anyway.

"Agnes Henson, it's over."

His voice sounded like he'd forced it out of his chest.

"Next week Lois Henson and I get married. She lost our parents when she was little. You're the only sister she has."

"Don't let her find out."

"I'm begging you."

I leaned against the wall, nails digging into my palm.

The whole world felt hollowed out under me.

Jerome and my sister.

I had never once put those two people together.

She'd married her current husband three years ago.

Right after the wedding, she went abroad with him.

An entire ocean between us, a few holiday greetings dropped in the family group chat.

Jerome would see them and just mention it to me in passing.

"Is your sister doing okay over there? Call her more when you get the chance."

At the time I only thought he was being thoughtful.

Now, looking back, I wonder what he'd been holding down under that casual tone.

In the stairwell, my sister was crying.

She'd only flown back yesterday.

Tonight's family dinner was meant to welcome her home.

She reached out and grabbed at Jerome's cuff, her fingers shaking hard.

"Three years."

"Three years I was abroad, and you never called me once."

"Now I'm back, and you're telling me it's over?"

He shut his eyes and yanked his arm free.

"It should have been over before you left."

"I don't believe you!"

Her voice went shrill.

"You told me to wait for you, you told me not to marry him!"

"I know I wronged you, but I came back!"

"Jerome, I'm back now!"

His head snapped up, his eyes turning cold.

"If you let Lois find out, I will never see you again as long as I live."

My sister went rigid.

A long moment passed, then she smiled.

It was worse than crying.

"Fine."

"You win."

"I'll stand there and watch you two get married."

"I'll be the good sister for the rest of my life."

I closed my eyes and turned to leave.

My steps were so light it was like walking on cotton.

Not long after I got back to my seat, Jerome returned too.

He sat down beside me and took my hand, easy as ever.

Cool and mild. Just like always.

"Why are your eyes red?"

His thumb wiped the corner of my eye.

I looked at that worried face of his.

As if nothing had happened at all.

"It's nothing. I've had too much to drink."

He didn't press.

Because my aunt-in-law had risen with a glass in hand, calling for everyone to quiet down.

"Come now, it's not every day Agnes makes it home. Lois, say a few words to welcome your sister back!"

I was just about to stand.

Then Jerome pressed a hand to my shoulder and reached for the microphone on the table first.

For a second, no one moved.

Agnes went still, her glass halfway raised.

Jerome held the microphone, tilted his head, and glanced at me. His voice was gentle.

"Let me."

"You're not feeling great today. I'll say it for you."

He was already on his feet before I could answer, turning to face Agnes.

His voice was even, nothing out of place in it.

"Lois wants to say that these past few years, with you gone, she's missed you a lot."

"Don't go so far away again. Everyone's here at home. Come back anytime."

He paused before that last line.

Agnes lowered her eyes, the corner of her mouth curving.

"Okay. I know."

Their eyes met for less than a second, then each looked away.

I sat where I was and watched all of it, clear as day.

The aunt-in-law started the applause, and the room warmed back up.

I turned my head and looked at Jerome.

"That wasn't what I'd planned to say."

"And I can say it myself."

He blinked, then smiled and reached over to ruffle my hair.

"You've been red around the eyes since this afternoon. You've missed your sister that much, haven't you? I was afraid you'd lose it the second you opened your mouth."

Then he pulled me into his arms, easy as always.

The same as every other time.

If I hadn't noticed that when his arm came around me, its warmth was only lukewarm, and had never once burned,

I would probably have gone on believing it.

"Is that so."

The corner of my mouth twitched.

"Then thank you, really."

He didn't catch the shift in my tone.

Agnes came over, glass in hand.

Her smile was gracious, her bearing composed.

"Lois, time really flies. You're getting married next week."

She touched my cheek.

"I thought I'd miss your wedding. Good thing I made it back in time."

I lowered my eyes.

My stomach turned over in waves of nausea.

She turned to Jerome, her gaze holding on him for only half a second.

"Take good care of my little sister."

"Or I won't let you off easy."

Jerome never touched a drop, usually.

Right then he lifted his glass and drained it.

"I will."

Agnes turned and went to sit with the elders' table.

Laughter spread back through the hall.

And Jerome sat beside me, glass after glass.

I watched him drink and didn't stop him.

There was no point anymore.

That night Jerome got dead drunk.

Back home he collapsed onto the couch, his tie half crooked, eyes shut, mumbling.

"Agnes..."

"Why did you come back..."

I sat beside him and listened, very quietly.

Listened to my fianc call my sister's name in his sleep.

My phone rang. It was the hotel.

"Good evening, Miss Henson. You asked earlier to cancel the reception. We wanted to confirm with youthe deposit is non-refundable."

I kept my voice low.

"That's fine. Confirm the cancellation."

I hung up. The man on the couch rolled over.

"Lois... water... my throat hurts..."

I didn't move.

I got up, went back to the bedroom, and shut the door.

Canceled all the invitations, all the wedding favors.

Opened my phone and booked a flight to Norway.

I'd always wanted to see the fjord glacier.

Jerome always said, once things settle down.

Now, there was no need to wait.

I lay in bed, unable to sleep.

And I began to go back over these ten years, one piece at a time.

The more I thought, the more there was.

Those days three years ago, before Agnes went abroad.

Jerome's inexplicable insomnia and silence.

Every time Agnes sent something back from overseas.

He'd always open the package for me, then stare at what was inside for a long time.

And in every photo of the three of us, the way his body tilted, just slightly.

Always toward Agnes's side.

I don't know when it started.

But I knew this much.

It was all supposed to be over.

The next morning, Jerome was already up.

He stood in the kitchen, apron tied at his waist, plain oatmeal simmering on the stove.

For ten years he'd made breakfast.

"You're awake?"

He carried the bowl to the table.

"I drank too much last night. I didn't say anything crazy, did I?"

I looked at that bowl of oatmeal on the table.

I don't eat oatmeal.

For ten years, every morning I've had toast and coffee, nothing else.

The one who loves oatmeal is my sister.

"No."

He let out a breath, then frowned.

"You didn't even pour me a glass of water last night. My throat's been sore all morning."

I didn't pick up my spoon.

"I'm not obligated to look after you."

His hands stopped.

He looked up at me, his eyes confused.

I looked straight at him, calmly picked up that bowl of oatmeal, and poured it down the sink.

"I don't eat oatmeal."

I turned around to face his stunned expression, and smiled.

"The one who's used to eating oatmeal is my sister."

I went out.

No destination in mind.

I passed the high school I used to attend.

The plane trees by the gate had been replaced season after season.

I stopped and stared at them for a long time.

Jerome and I had been classmates.

My sister was a year ahead of us.

Back then, she worried about me walking home alone in the dark.

Every night after study hall she waited for me at the school gate.

I don't know which day it started, but Jerome began showing up on our way home too.

My sister teased that he was there to walk me home.

But even though we were in the same class, we weren't really close.

After that, my eyes started following him without my meaning to.

The day college admissions ended, my sister egged me on to confess.

So I did.

Jerome was clearly caught off guard.

His lips moved, like he was about to refuse.

But what finally came out was "Okay."

From then on, Jerome became part of my life and my sister's.

I'd always thought he stayed for me.

Now, looking back.

He stayed because my sister was there too.

If he only said yes back then to get close to my sister,

then that faint bit of warmth in every touch over these ten years,

was nothing but his guilt toward me.

I didn't dare think any further.

I took a deep breath, walked to the curb, and flagged down a taxi.

The moment I got in, I saw Jerome's car pull out of the complex garage.

Wrong direction.

Not the office, not the gym either.

"Follow that Maybach up ahead."

Turn after turn, it finally stopped in a quiet alley on the city outskirts.

At the end stood a studio.

A private house with its own yard, green vines climbing all over the wall.

There was a marking on the mailbox by the door.

Not a name. A date.

I did the math.

It was the day my sister went abroad.

The door was ajar. I pushed it open a crack.

I heard my sister's voice.

"What did Lois mean this morning? Did she find out?"

Jerome's voice was low, edged with anger.

"You promised me she'd never find out, didn't you?"

My sister's voice grew a little calmer.

"She won't."

"I asked her. She said everything's fine, that nothing happened."

"She's probably just in a bad mood."

He was quiet for a while, his breathing slowly evening out.

"This is the last time I'll come here. I won't come back to this place again."

My sister let out a soft laugh.

"Is that so?"

"We bought this studio together five years ago. Every painting on these walls, you drew with your own hands."

"Jerome, can you really just walk away?"

A few seconds of silence.

Then the sound of an embrace.

Fabric brushing, breaths tangling together.

I let go of the door and stepped back.

Through the gap, I saw the walls hung full of sketches.

All of them my sister's face.

Different angles, different light, different expressions.

Not a single one was me.

Like an outsider who'd wandered into someone else's world, I stood at the door, cold all over.

The memories started rushing up on their own.

The last month before my sister went abroad, three years ago.

Jerome worked late constantly, often not coming home until the middle of the night.

Two years ago, on Valentine's Day, he said he'd been called in at the last minute to host foreign clients.

The dinner I'd made went cold, and I poured it out.

Later my sister posted a foreign street scene on her feed.

The location was the same city where Jerome had said he was "on a business trip."

Last year, on my sister's birthday, Jerome's phone was off the whole night.

The next day he said he'd left it at the office.

One thing after another.

All of it laid out.

I turned and left the alley, called a car, and went home.

I didn't expose it.

It wasn't time yet.

Once I was back, I started packing.

Jerome got home half an hour after me.

He walked in calm, saw me sorting through the closet, and came over to hug me from behind.

Tight.

"This morning was my fault."

He rested his chin on my shoulder, his voice low.

"The oatmeal, I got it mixed up. Don't be angry."

"Will you hold it against me?"

I looked at the wedding gown in the closet I hadn't even had the chance to try on, and pulled at the corner of my mouth.

"Of course not."

He let out a breath and went to the bathroom.

The instant the water started running, I let the smile fall.

On the third day after my sister came home, she brought her husband over for dinner.

She said it was to see me, and to check whether the wedding still needed any help.

She looped her arm through mine, her voice warm and close.

"Lois is getting married next week. I missed your engagement, so I have to be your maid of honor at the wedding."

I lowered my eyes.

"Don't you feel any regret?"

She paused, then patted the back of my hand with a smile.

"What are you talking about? Mom and Dad are gone, so putting you into Jerome's hands myself, as your older sister, matters more than anything."

I let out a small sound of agreement and said nothing more.

She turned to glance toward the kitchen.

"Is Jerome cooking? I'll go help."

Jerome had actually had a board meeting today.

He was the kind of man who put work above his own life.

Hundreds of people across the group were waiting on his decisions.

But this morning I'd heard him call his assistant and have the vice president chair it in his place.

For the chance to cook my sister a meal with his own hands, I supposed.

The dishes came to the table, a whole spread of seafood.

My sister looked it over and smiled.

"All this?"

Jerome's voice was flat.

"Lois said you always miss these when you're abroad. You're rarely home. Eat plenty."

I sat there quietly.

I had never said that.

I didn't even really know what my sister liked to eat.

But Jerome remembered.

He knew her tastes down to the last detail.

Like a series of silent slaps.

Her husband noticed nothing, peeling shrimp for her with a smile.

Jerome glanced over, looked away quickly, and set a piece of fish in my bowl.

"Have this. Fewer bones."

I didn't pick up my chopsticks.

At that meal, everyone but her husband was eating with something hidden on their mind.

In the afternoon, my sister suggested going with me to the bridal shop for the final fitting.

Jerome drove us over.

I stood in front of the mirror and put the gown on.

I had designed it myself.

Daisies were embroidered across the whole hem.

Three months earlier, when I was drawing the design, I'd shown the draft to Jerome.

He bent over it for a long time and said, "It's lovely."

That night I leaned on his shoulder and said,

"I'm going to be your most beautiful bride. When we're old, let's go settle in Norway together."

He smiled, stroked my hair, and said, "Okay."

That "okay" was gentle and calm.

Exactly the same as the one ten years ago, when he agreed to be with me.

Only now do I understand what it meant.

Not love.

He just couldn't bring himself to refuse.

In the mirror, the white gown made my face look very pale.

I lost my parents at eight.

At twenty-two, I lost my sister and the man I loved.

Maybe I was simply never meant to keep anyone.

The attendant asked carefully,

"Miss Henson, would you like to try the veil?"

I shook my head and took the gown off.

"No need. It's all fine."

When I came out of the fitting room, I saw my sister and Jerome standing at the shop door.

Two meters apart.

Like two people who didn't know each other.

Neither one looking at the other.

But somehow that only made it stranger.

The last night before the wedding, by custom the couple couldn't see each other.

Jerome dropped me at the hotel door.

Before he left he squeezed my palm and gave a faint smile.

"I'll come for you tomorrow."

He paused.

"You're going to be the most beautiful bride."

I nodded, my face blank.

He hugged me for a moment, then turned and got in the car.

I stood at the hotel door.

Only when the car was completely out of sight did I turn and go back to my room.

I opened the suitcase.

There was no getting-ready robe or makeup bag for the morning inside.

Just the down jackets and documents I'd been quietly slipping in over the past two days.

At two in the morning I carried the case downstairs and took a cab to the airport.

Before boarding, I opened my phone and went into the group chat of three, me, Jerome, and my sister.

I sent one photo.

It was that studio.

The walls full of sketch portraits.

No words with it.

Then I turned the phone off.

Boarded.

Twelve hours later, the plane landed.

Morning in Norway, the light a grayish blue.

I turned my phone on.

Messages poured in like a flood.

Sixty-seven missed calls.