The Evening Breeze Remains, but the Old Friend Is Gone

After our fiftieth cold war, I got petty and listed every luxury gift Violet Fox had given me over the years on an online resale marketplace.

The guy who came to appraise them studied the pile for a long moment, then couldn't help laughing.

Man, it's Balenciaga, not Balingsiaga. It's Versace, not Versachi. And this one, it's Gucci, not Guchee...

I stared blankly at those clumsy, ridiculous knockoff spellings. Because I'd trusted her, for eight whole years I'd never once looked closely.

He gave me a pitying glance.

"These don't even make the bottom rung of a decent fake. For all ten boxes, three hundred, tops."

I clutched those three crumpled hundred-dollar bills and went to find Violet Fox.

Inside the private room, she was casually opening a bottle of red wine.

"This Romane-Conti, five point two million. To celebrate your promotion."

Grant Harding spoke up with a grin. "Ms. Fox, that's way too extravagant!"

"You're worth it."

One of the women beside her spotted me and raised her voice on purpose.

"Violet, seriously, it's been eight years. You've really never thought about marrying Max Barnes?"

Violet Fox swirled the wine in her glass and gave a small smile.

"Marry him? A fool who can't even tell real from fake, and he's fit to be a Fox?"

"It was only ever a game. Did someone actually take it seriously?"

Eight years of trust and waiting collapsed into rubble at those three words, only ever a game.

It hit me all at once. She had never loved me.

...

Someone in the room let out a whistle.

"Well, look who's here. Max."

Violet Fox lifted her eyelids and spoke, flat and indifferent.

"Here already? And here I thought you had a backbone."

"How long did this cold war last? Forty-eight hours? Max, you set a new record."

Someone egged it on. "Violet, look at that face on him. He's obviously missing you like crazy."

"No kidding. Fight or no fight, when does Max ever not cave first?"

I clenched my fist, took a step forward, and slapped the three hundred dollars down on the table.

"Eight years of gifts. Three hundred dollars, all told."

"How did I not know the great Miss Fox had fallen on such hard times?"

Grant Harding cut in, all smiles.

"Max, Violet cracks open a bottle for me on a whim and it's five million. You're her boyfriend. If you're short on cash, just say the word, that's all it takes."

Violet Fox glanced down at the three hundred dollars and tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Max, you're funny."

"A fight that ends with you selling stuff off. Don't tell me this time you actually mean to cut ties with me?"

A few of the women beside her broke into laughter.

"Max, we clocked those watches of yours as fakes ages ago. Every time you wore one out, the rest of us had to look down and pretend to check our phones so we wouldn't laugh."

"Eight years. We had a private bet going on when you'd finally figure it out. Some said three months, some said a year, the longest bet on three years. And you held out a full eight. Not a single one of us won."

Grant Harding reached over and tugged at my sleeve.

"Don't be mad, Max. Sit down, have a drink, cool off."

He added with a smile.

"Though since all your luxury stuff is fake, maybe you've got to drink fake wine to match?"

The room burst into laughter.

Violet Fox took a slow sip of her wine and said nothing.

I finally steadied my breathing, fixed my eyes on hers, and spoke one word at a time.

"Violet, you gave me fakes. Was it because you don't know the difference, or because you didn't think I deserved the real thing?"

A flicker of impatience finally showed in her eyes.

"The wine I order on a whim runs five million. You think I, Violet Fox, can't afford the genuine article?"

It struck me as funny, so funny it turned bitter at the back of my throat.

Those clumsy knockoffs, that offhand tone of hers, were the answer in themselves.

What more was there for me to humiliate myself over?

"What?" She raised her eyes to me.

"You can't even tell real from fake, and now you turn around and interrogate me?"

I looked at the face that once made me lose myself, and all that was left in it now was a cold, thin mockery.

"So." I gritted my teeth, spacing each word. "You did it on purpose."

"So from the very start, you never once planned to marry me."

Violet Fox idly pinched the three hundred dollars between her fingers, then let go.

The pink bills drifted down to the floor.

She stood, and her wine-heavy breath fanned across my face.

Once it made my heart race. Now it only made me sick.

"What else?"

She reached out and patted my cheek.

"Max, are you fit to use the real thing?"

"A useless man I've kept and spoiled, who can't even tell real from fake, is he fit to stand at my side?"

I tipped my head back and forced the tears welling in my eyes to stay put.

"I'm not fit."

"So this spot beside a Fox, I won't ask for it again."

"Save it for whoever you think is fit."

I turned around and walked out.

The summer downpour hammered the ground and threw up a white haze of mist.

I had no umbrella, and I didn't look back.

The freezing rain soaked through me in an instant, and I couldn't feel the cold.

Over and over in my head ran Violet Fox's words: As if you were ever worthy.

I thought back to before.

Back to our thirtieth cold war, when I cried and slammed the door on my way out, and she chased me down in the pouring rain, looped that tie around my neck, and said, Stop this, Maxie. Come home.

Back to our fortieth cold war, when I moved out, and she stood downstairs the whole night, and at dawn pressed that watch into my hand. Don't be angry anymore, Maxie.

I thought she just wasn't good at putting it into words, that all those luxury gifts were her clumsy, unspoken proof of love.

I never imagined they were all fake.

The laughable part is that with those fakes, I forgave her again and again.

I stumbled home and started tearing through everything.

The anniversary tie clip, the birthday cufflinks, the Valentine's rings, all the things that carried her feelings, that were supposed to mean something

Not one of them was real.

Not one.

I sank down into the wreckage all over the floor and finally broke down sobbing.

In eight years, I had never once looked closely.

Because when she gave them to me, her voice was so doting, her eyes so gentle, and she said:

Maxie, you deserve the best and most expensive of everything in the world.

And I believed her.

I don't know how much time passed before Grant Harding hauled Violet Fox in by the arm.

Max, Ms. Fox had too much to drink tonight. I brought her home.

He got her settled, then straightened up, his eyes moving from my face to the box on the floor.

Max, what are you digging through all this for?

He tilted his head, his tone innocent. Oh, right. Are you looking for that scarf?

I turned back to look, and only then saw the box was empty. The gray-blue scarf was gone.

My father had knitted it in his last days, stitch by stitch, said it was a wedding gift for me.

He followed my gaze, glanced down, and smiled.

That thing? I happened to mention it last month, and Ms. Fox just handed it over. Said it was taking up space in the house.

Where did you put it? Give it back to me!

I just tossed it.

He blinked, said it like it was nothing.

Some handmade thing like that, all shabby and homespun. Who'd want it?

When I stood up my legs had gone numb, and I had to brace against the wall to steady myself.

Violet Fox. I called out her name.

The figure on the couch stirred, brow creasing with irritation.

...What's all the noise.

That scarf. You gave it to Grant Harding?

She paused, propped herself halfway up, and gave a careless little scoff.

That ratty scarf? So it got thrown out. It wasn't worth fifty bucks.

She pulled a wad of cash from her wallet and flung it at me.

The bills came down across my face and scattered in a rush at my feet.

Go buy a new one. Stop bothering me.

Enough? There's more if it's not.

Grant Harding laughed behind his hand and bent to steady Violet Fox by the arm.

Ms. Fox, let me help you to the bedroom to rest.

Violet Fox let out a soft mm and let her whole weight fall against Grant Harding.

I thought again of my father's last days, when she held my hand and said: Don't worry, sir. I'll take care of Maxie for the rest of his life.

So it turned out those promises were fake too.

Violet Fox.

I said it to her back.

If anyone's leaving, it's the two of you. This house is mine.

Violet turned around, her gaze loose and unfocused from the drink.

"Yours?"

"Max Barnes, are you sure about that?"

I opened my mouth, and the words caught in my throat.

Three years ago, a patient's family attacked me at the hospital. The nerves in my right wrist were damaged, and I could never hold a scalpel steady again.

Those were the darkest days of my life.

It was Violet who appeared when I was at my lowest, Violet who paid the down payment on this house.

She held me and said gently, "Maxie, don't be scared. I'll take care of you."

"From now on you'll be my personal chef. All I want is for you to cook for me every day. Okay?"

For three years, I got up at six every morning, studied recipes, chopped vegetables until my left hand was covered in calluses, and made her something different every day.

I scrimped on everything, saved every dollar I earned, wanting to repay what she'd done for me.

I thought I'd paid it back a long time ago.

"What, drawing a blank?"

Violet took two steps closer and looked down at me.

"Without me, back then you were a cripple who couldn't even lift a scalpel."

"Without me covering the down payment, you'd still be rotting away in some rental."

"Max, all these years you've eaten my food, lived in my house, spent my money. The polite word is boyfriend. The honest one is a kept man."

Grant covered his mouth and laughed out loud.

"Max, you still don't know? This house was signed over to me ages ago."

My head snapped up, my pupils shrinking.

"Last time Violet lost a game, my price was this house."

Violet added flatly, "Grant wanted it, so I gave it to him."

"Oh, right."

Grant supported Violet as they walked forward, tossing the words back over his shoulder like they weighed nothing.

"And all that food you made? Violet never touched a bite. It all got sent over to me."

"Would've been a shame to just throw it out. Lucky my dogs love it."

I stood there, and a cold crept through my arms and legs.

All those breakfasts I thought she'd eaten, all those flavors I adjusted so carefully, remembering she hated scallions, hated cilantro, every little detail, all that porridge I woke early to simmer.

All of it, dumped out.

I turned around and opened the drawer.

I pulled out the deed, flipped it open, to the line for the owner.

Grant Harding.

The name, plain as day.

I stared at it for a long time, my fingers trembling.

Beside the box was a thick photo album.

Eight years of pictures of Violet and me.

The first time we watched snow fall together, our college graduation, our first trip, our first New Year's, the fireworks the night she confessed to me.

I opened to the first page, a photo of the two of us.

But my face had been scribbled over with a black marker, dense and heavy.

I turned the page. Covered again.

In every photo, Violet's face was untouched, her eyes clear, her smile soft.

And my face, every one, blacked out into a dark smear.

On the last page, a line was written across the blank paper.

"Stay away from her, you freak."

I closed the album, held it against my chest, crouched on the floor, and finally sobbed out loud.

For eight years, I thought I was loved.

From beginning to end, I was nothing but a joke.

When I was done crying, I put the album back in the drawer, walked into the bedroom, and started packing my things.

One item at a time, folded and set into the case.

The one letter my father left me, and my medical license, still not expired.

By the time I came out of the bedroom, the rain had long stopped. Wind blew in through the window, carrying the damp of summer.

I pulled the door open and walked out.

The next morning I lay curled up in the hotel bed, jolted awake by my phone.

"Good morning, Mr. Barnes. The birthday cake you ordered will be ready for pickup at three this afternoon. Also, that ring you had us hide in the false layer... would you like us to double-check that it's secured?"

I held the phone, and for a moment the world tilted.

It was my birthday.

I had rehearsed it a thousand times in my head. Candles flickering, me cutting into the slice that hid the ring, smiling as I asked her:

"Violet Fox, I'm giving you myself and the rest of my life. Will you take them?"

Back then I'd thought, if she wouldn't propose to me, then I would.

What difference did it make who asked first?

As long as the ending was us.

But now, all of it suddenly felt as absurd as some farce.

"Cancel it."

"Throw out the cake and the ring."

I hung up, and the phone buzzed again.

A message from Grant, with a video attached.

Max, I don't think you know this yet, but that malpractice attack that ruined you all those years ago wasn't an accident.

My fingertip trembled as I opened the video.

On screen, Violet swirled a glass in her hand, her voice coming through clearly:

"That fake attack was a nice touch. Convincing enough."

"His right hand was basically finished after that. Otherwise, with a temper like his, do you really think he'd have been content to stay by my side as my chef?"

"Violet, you're brilliant."

Another voice, agreeing.

"One staged attack, and he can't leave you, and he's so grateful he thinks you saved him. That's a bargain, all right."

The video cut off there.

I stared at the screen.

That attack had ruined the right hand I'd been so proud of.

All those nights I'd wept, gone hollow with despair, then found hope again because of three words from her: I'll take care of you.

It turned out she had planned all of it.

Right after, a second message popped up:

Oh, right. That overseas treatment plan the director set up for you three years ago? Violet already "turned it down" for you long ago. She said if you got healed, you'd fly off on her.

I stared at the line, lifted a hand to cover my mouth, and a strangled sound broke from my throat.

She had dragged me down from the clouds, ground me into the mud, then held out her hand with false tenderness so I would grab it and be grateful.

And then she'd told me: "See? I'm the only one who wants you."

And I had loved her, seriously, for eight whole years.

The phone buzzed again.

Max, I was never the pathetic one here.

I flagged down a car to the hospital.

The director sighed. "Max, it was your partner, Ms. Fox, who came in and signed off on the reply. She said you were emotionally unstable, that you wanted to recover quietly here at home. She also said... that you'd accepted things as they were, and didn't want to put yourself through it anymore."

I closed my eyes for a moment.

So it really was all true.

"And if I want to go now?"

I opened my eyes. "Is there still time?"

The director took a folder from his drawer and handed it to me. "I'll make the calls for you."

"Max, your talent shouldn't be buried here. As long as there's a sliver of hope, you shouldn't give it up."

I held the folder against my chest and pushed the door open, walking out.

When the elevator reached the ground floor and the doors slid open, two people were standing outside.

Grant saw me and his eyes curved into a smile. "Max, you're at the hospital too?"

"Max? What are you doing here?"

Violet's eyelids lifted, then she frowned.

"Don't tell me you followed me all the way here. Can you not come up with something new?"

I said nothing.

Grant leaned in closer to Violet's side.

"Max, Violet's pregnant. It's mine."

The corridor went quiet for a beat.

Violet didn't deny it. She just watched me, waiting for me to fall apart, to cry and rage, to ask her why with red-rimmed eyes the way I had countless times before.

But I only looked at them, still.

I tugged the corner of my mouth into something faint, and my voice came out light.

"Congratulations."

"Wishing you two a lock-tight forever."

Violet clearly hadn't expected that reaction. The composure on her face finally cracked.

"Max, you..."

She took an instinctive step forward.

But I had already turned, brushing past her shoulder.

"Violet." I didn't look back. "We're done."

By the time I reached the airport, my phone buzzed.

A message from Violet:

Maxie, I didn't forget it's your birthday today. I booked a restaurant for tonight. We need to talk this through properly.

How long had it been since she'd called me that.

Before, every time we fought in silence, all she had to do was say Maxie and I'd soften and come back.

She knew better than anyone what that name meant to me, so even now, at this point, she was still reaching for it.

I powered off the phone, shoved it to the bottom of my bag, and walked into the security line.

Every birthday from now on, I'd spend on my own.