The West Wind Won't Carry an Old Promise

While I was cleaning the new place, I lost my footing on the ladder and fell.

It hurt so much, but my first instinct was still to text Bartholomew Harding.

I slipped just now while I was wiping the windows. But then I thought about how this is going to be our home, and it made me really happy.

I stared at my phone. Nothing came.

Hours passed before his reply finally arrived.

"What's the point of telling me this? You want me to feel sorry for you? One round of emotional blackmail wasn't enough for you?"

I froze.

My marriage to Bartholomew had been arranged by his grandmother.

Two years ago I'd saved Cheryl Harding by chance, and she knew I'd always liked him. To repay me, she decided the two of us would marry.

There was no trace of happiness on his face. But he didn't refuse either.

From that day on, though, he despised emotional blackmail, and he hated any show of weakness. All I could do was try desperately to prove I wasn't doing either.

When he ran a fever, I stayed up all night looking after him, and never said a word even when I felt terrible myself. Whatever trouble I hit at work, I solved on my own. Even for things he could have fixed with a single word, I never once let myself look weak in front of him.

A post popped up on my phone. It was from Peggy Summers, the actress his company was pushing right now, their brightest young star. A photo of a bleeding finger.

The caption read: Pricked my finger while making a gift for a certain someone. The moment I told him, he was so worried he came straight over to check on me.

At the edge of the picture I could see the hem of a man's shirt. I recognized it in a single glance. It was Bartholomew.

And suddenly I understood that this relationship had been wrong from the very start.

1.

After my wound was dressed, I stepped out of the exam room and ran straight into Bartholomew and Peggy.

He was holding her hand, studying with great care a cut so tiny it was almost invisible.

"The doctor already said it's fine. There was really no need to come to the hospital. You're worrying over nothing." Peggy pouted playfully.

"You got hurt because of me. How could I not worry? Don't do things like this anymore." His voice was calm, but it carried a doting warmth I had never once heard from him.

"Ever since I joined the company you've taken such good care of me, always giving me the best opportunities first. I just wanted to thank you a little."

"I'm backing you because you're worth it. Just behave, don't cause trouble for me and make me worry, that's all I ask."

"When have I ever caused trouble? Haven't I always done what you said?"

Bartholomew smiled, and his voice went gentle. "Last time you made me a cake and nearly blew up the kitchen. I was so worried I flew back home overnight. Before that you cut your finger cooking for me and I spent three days coaxing you. Now you've pricked your finger again... isn't that enough?"

"When you get hurt because of me, I can't feel the least bit happy. Do you understand?"

The air was warm, and yet I felt as cold as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice water over me.

All these years, I had never dared voice a thought like that in front of Bartholomew.

When we first got together, I tried too. I learned to cook for him, learned to take care of him. When I got hurt I'd act sweet and hope for a little concern from him.

But he always said, flatly, "I never asked you to do any of this for me."

Then last year, I stayed up several nights putting together a birthday gift for him and ended up getting sick.

At his birthday, I let it slip: "Getting all this ready took a lot of time, and I even got sick over it. But as long as you're happy, that's all that matters."

He seemed to reach his breaking point. He smashed the cake I'd spent so long preparing onto the floor and said, furious, "Do you always have to play the pitiful one? Always have to take the moral high ground so everyone feels guilty and gives in? You used emotional blackmail on my grandmother to end up with me. Don't ever expect me to feel sorry for you."

After that, I never let him see a single vulnerable side of me again.

Last month Bartholomew came down with the flu and his fever wouldn't break. Taking care of him, I went several days without a decent night's sleep.

Later he recovered, but I was the one who collapsed. I just made up an excuse to stay at a friend's place for two days, and once I was better I came back acting as if nothing had happened.

I was afraid he'd find me tiresome, afraid he'd think I was making him feel guilty on purpose, and I knew he'd never be pleased by anyone sacrificing for him.

And yet now, he had turned to another person and said: You got hurt because of me. How could I not worry?

Just as I was lost in the thought, Peggy's voice broke through it.

"Regina Fox, why are you here? Did you get hurt?"

Bartholomew cut her off, impatient. "She's a doctor herself. What could possibly be wrong with her? Don't go worrying about other people."

Only then did his gaze fall on me. "Once you're done, go home early. Peggy's hurt and it's hard for her to get around, so I need to see her back."

The moment he finished, he took Peggy's hand and left.

I was the "other people" he spoke of, the one who didn't need looking after even when she was hurt.

I watched his retreating figure. From high school until now, I had followed that figure for ten years. It seemed no different from the first time I ever saw it, and yet somehow everything had changed.

The scrape on my leg seemed to sting worse now, but I didn't do anything about it. I just walked home slowly.

A post pushed to my phone. Someone had filmed the scene at the hospital and put it online, and now people were arguing over it.

Some boyfriend Bartholomew Harding is. His girlfriend gets hurt and he ignores her to drive some other woman home?

You don't get it. He never liked his girlfriend much. Word is she clawed her way in with emotional blackmail.

With Bartholomew Harding's kind of standing, who could ever force him to be with a woman he doesn't like?

Guess she's just that good at playing people. Not a skill I could ever learn.

Before long the post was deleted, and nothing about it could be found online anymore.

When I got home, Bartholomew was sitting in the living room, still on the phone.

"Scrub it clean. Peggy's on the rise right now, and she can't take a single hit from public opinion."

"Don't bother tracing the IP. Nobody but Regina would do something like this."

Only after he set the phone down did he notice I was back.

"Did you have someone film it?" He was asking me, but his tone left no room for doubt.

He didn't ask why I'd taken so long, didn't ask if it still hurt, didn't ask whether the things online had upset me. He'd already decided it was me. And I no longer had the strength to explain.

"No." It took me a long time to force out that one word.

"If it wasn't you, then who? You just wanted to steer public opinion so I'd feel guilty, didn't you? Too bad. I don't feel guilty at all."

"I really don't understand you. Haven't you already gotten what you wanted? The Harding name, my grandmother's affection. What is there left for you to feel sorry for yourself about?"

I couldn't hold it back. I started to cry.

"Yes, I do feel sorry for myself. You can care about anyone around you, but you'll never care about me."

"You always think I'm doing it on purpose, always think I'm faking pity to trap you, so you can dismiss everything I feel. But Peggy scrapes herself the tiniest bit and you ache over it. Why?"

Bartholomew paused, then said impatiently, "Because that's just the kind of person you are. Even when she's hurt she keeps smiling, terrified someone might feel guilty because of her. And you? You'll only ever put on that pitiful little act, playing weak so people feel sorry for you. That's the difference between you and her."

"And it's not just me. Everyone sees it. It was like this two years ago, and it's the same two years later. What gives you the right to demand that I care?"

I fought down the tears and asked, "And before? We've known each other so long. Don't you know what kind of person I am? Is this how you've always seen me?"

Bartholomew paused, then let out a cold laugh. "You've actually got the nerve to bring up before. I used to think you were different from the others too. Turns out you're even better at scheming than they are. Putting on an act in front of me all this time. Doesn't it get exhausting?"

I didn't want to argue with him anymore.

That night we slept in the same bed, but the distance between our hearts was already beyond measuring.

How long had we been living like this, sharing a bed and nothing else?

Bartholomew and I met in high school. We were deskmates for three years.

He came from money, and he was clean and dazzling, the kind of boy no shortage of girls wanted. I was one of them.

Now and then a boy like that would show me a care that went past ordinary classmates. He'd bring me breakfast, take me to see his grandmother. And even so, I only ever dared to bury how I felt deep inside.

Then, two years ago, his grandmother collapsed from a sudden heart attack, and I happened to be there and saved her.

Later I learned she'd seen through my girlhood feelings all along, and she was the one who decided to put us together.

Back then I thought it was a beginning. I never imagined it was the ending.

He took back every privilege he'd once given me, and for as long as I was with him, that was how long I bore the cold of his eyes.

I opened my phone and looked at the notice the hospital had sent to the group chat a few days ago about assembling a medical corps to go out to the frontier.

I'd never once considered it before. Because of Bartholomew.

I used to think that even if he wouldn't take a single step toward me, I could walk the whole distance between us alone. But now, I didn't want to take even one step toward him. Not even a little further forward, though that was all it would take for us to have what the world calls happiness.

I typed a few words into my phone: I'm in.

The next morning at work, I turned in my application form.

My coworkers saw it and kept asking what had made me change my mind so suddenly.

"What made you decide to go after all? You can bear to leave your precious Bartholomew Harding?"

I shook my head and said nothing.

Then Peggy Summers came looking for me, crying her eyes out.

"Regina, I really didn't mean to cause a fight between you two. I didn't know you'd get the wrong idea about him because of me. Let me apologize to you, okay? Don't stay angry at him."

I frowned and quickly pulled her into an empty office.

Peggy's position was delicate. If someone recognized her, it would be trouble all over again.

But the moment we stepped inside, she suddenly screamed and threw herself at the floor, slamming down hard. Before I could even react, the office door swung open.

It was Bartholomew.

He took in the scene and rushed straight over to help Peggy up.

"What happened?" There was an edge of panic in his voice.

Peggy spoke through her tears. "I came to apologize to Regina. I didn't want you two fighting because of me, so I texted you to come make up with her, but she pushed me."

"I don't know why Regina is so hostile toward me. I really just wanted to apologize. My knee hurts so much."

Peggy's knee was scraped open and bleeding.

Bartholomew turned to me with fury in his eyes, grabbed me, and dragged me in front of Peggy.

My lower back struck the corner of the desk, but strangely, I didn't feel the pain.

"Regina, are your thoughts really that ugly? Can't you stand to see anyone else do well? How long are you going to keep this up?"

"Apologize to Peggy now, and dress her wound."

I let out a cold laugh. "You believe her word just like that?"

"I only believe what I see with my own eyes."

"What do you mean, what you see? Her falling is a fact, but me getting hurt that day isn't? You only believe what you want to believe. You're prejudiced against me, so every bad thing must be my doing, is that it?" I asked him, my voice breaking.

Bartholomew fell silent. He only stood there, watching me quietly.

I tilted my head back, not wanting the tears to fall. My eyes stung, but the ache in my heart was worse.

The room stayed quiet for a long time before I pushed the door open and left.

I came back with the supplies and dressed Peggy's wound, quick and simple.

"I'm treating her wound because I'm a doctor, and I can't stand by and watch anyone get hurt. I didn't do what she said, so I won't apologize. If you want the security footage, you can get it from the security office yourself. I have work to do, so I won't keep you company."

With that, I turned and walked out. It felt like eyes were following me from behind.

But I didn't look back, not once.

After that day, I moved into the hospital dormitory.

I never went looking for Bartholomew again. Now and then I caught sight of him in the news, or in Peggy's posts.

While he was out, I went back to the apartment once and packed up everything that belonged to me.

In the two years we'd been together, he'd hardly ever given me a gift, and I didn't own much either, so it didn't take long.

As I pulled a piece of clothing from the bottom of the closet, a photo slipped out of the pocket.

It was the two of us, taken the year we graduated high school.

That year he'd gotten into Columbia, and I'd applied to New York Medical University because of him. The day the acceptance came through, he'd tugged me over to the school gate and taken this picture.

He'd smiled and said to me, "Future Dr. Fox. From now on I'm counting on you to save lives."

But now what he says is, "Regina, can you really not stand to see anyone else do well?"

I looked at it for a long time. In the end I just picked up a pair of scissors and cut apart the photo that held our whole youth.

The day before I left for Montana, I went to see Bartholomew's grandmother.

She was in decent spirits, but the sight of me seemed to shame her.

"Reggie, dear, I've heard about everything between you two. He was in the wrong. Let me apologize on his behalf."

I shook my head.

"It's all right, Cheryl Harding. I came to say goodbye."

"The hospital put together a medical team going out to the frontier. It's a year. I'll come see you again when I'm back."

She looked startled, then sighed. "Have you told him?"

"Not yet. I'll tell him when I go. He doesn't love me, and I won't force him. This is where we end. I won't be able to honor the engagement you arranged."

She was quiet for a long while, and in the end she nodded.

"You know, back then I wasn't just playing matchmaker on a whim. I watched that boy grow up. He guards himself so closely, but he was willing to bring you to meet me, willing to let you see him when he wasn't strong. I knew you were special to him. I'd wanted to bring you two together for a long time, so I used repaying you as the reason to set it up."

"But from then on I watched him treat you worse and worse, until he wouldn't even listen to me. He said I'd been fooled by you, that you'd charmed me with sweet talk. But what kind of person you are, do you think I don't know by now?"

"All these years, every time he came to see me, you came with him, finding new ways to cheer up an old woman. And that time my heart gave out, if it hadn't been for you, I'd have been gone from this world long ago."

"Never mind. Maybe it's this old woman who got it wrong. He isn't good enough for you. You'll find someone better someday."

When she'd finished, she pressed a card into my hand.

"I've thought of you as my granddaughter for a long time now. Such a pity we never got the chance to be family. Out there, you take good care of yourself."

I couldn't help it. I cried.

The day I left, sitting on the plane, I opened the message thread I hadn't touched in so long and sent Bartholomew a message.

"Let's break up."