I’ve been with Emma Sinclair for ten years. I even tattooed her favorite flower, a gardenia, on my collarbone. She finally agreed to marry me, but she’s been keeping an 18-year-old college boy on the side. Before our wedding, she indulged the boy’s countdown to our breakup. She went bungee jumping with him, skiing, and even watched the Northern Lights in Iceland. But she doesn’t know that I don’t have much time left. I’ve booked a flight out of the country, donated all her assets, and had my tattoo removed. While she’s counting down the days to our wedding, I’m planning my escape. The day I was diagnosed with stomach cancer, Emma’s boy toy came to find me. “I know I’m the other man,” he said, his honesty terrifyingly sincere. He bit his lip, “Bro, I know you’re about to get married, but—” “Emma doesn’t love you anymore.” “I’ve been with her for a year. We’ve slept together 78 times, 53 times in hotels, 21 times at my place.” “And 4 times at your place, in your bed.” He looked at me directly, “If Emma still loved you, I wouldn’t exist.” I found it amusing. I lit a cigarette and looked at him through the smoke, “What else? Go on.” He took out his phone and played a video for me. The angle was discreet, as if secretly recorded. The boy was nestled in Emma’s arms, “Even if you’re marrying him out of responsibility, can’t you keep me too?” Emma pushed him away, tossing him a credit card, “Find a girl your own age. Being with me isn’t good for you.” “No!” He begged, holding her waist, “I’m not afraid of danger.” “Can’t you not let me go?” “Emma, I won’t be a burden to you, I promise.” Emma paused. Her gaze swept over his face, momentarily lost in thought. Then she leaned in to kiss him.
I stubbed out my cigarette. The boy had just turned eighteen, full of youth and genuinely handsome. And the moment I saw him, I knew. He looked like me. Like James Harper at eighteen. “You’re right about one thing. If Emma still loved me, you wouldn’t exist.” I stood up, my stomach actually hurting a bit. I leaned on the table for support, not letting it show. “But I advise you not to get in too deep. Emma never loved you, or me.” “She only loves the James in her memories.” The handsome, innocent James who died on the path of helping her climb to the top. “In a few years, she’ll find a new replacement. You’ll end up worse off than me.” Actually, I was lying to him. I’m about to die, how could he possibly be worse off than me? At most, he’ll just be used and discarded by Emma.
I got together with Emma when I was eighteen. I grew up without parents, and the grandmother who raised me passed away when I was fifteen. That’s when Emma appeared. She pursued me relentlessly. Throwing money around, wanting to give me the best of everything. Emma was beautiful and made me feel secure. I fell for her quickly. On my nineteenth birthday, she coaxed me into my first time. That night. From sobriety to intoxication. We became one. The next day, Emma took me to meet her group of friends. I had never been in such a setting before, so I quietly followed Emma, mimicking her greetings. Their gazes as they sized me up were full of mockery. “Emma, why did you pick up a college boy?” “He’s too naive, he’ll hold you back.” At that time, I didn’t understand what they meant by “hold you back.” I couldn’t help but protest softly, “I won’t.” “I won’t be a burden to Emma.” Definitely not. But later, as I gradually became exposed to Emma’s world, I realized what kind of life she was living. It was fraught with danger. To avoid holding Emma back, to stay by her side, I had to force myself to fit into that environment. Ten years. I dyed my hair, started smoking, got tattoos. I even ended up with countless scars. Because I was tough enough, I helped Emma climb to the position of second-in-command of the North Side gang. But Emma didn’t seem happy. Countless nights. She would curl up in my arms, her fingers tracing over my scars, then leaning in to kiss them. “James.” She buried her face in my chest, sighing, “I still prefer the you from back then.” And I would always pause, then push her away and light a cigarette. Laughing bitterly. “Emma, you’re so fucking heartless to say that.”
Emma came home in the early hours of the morning. I was lying in bed, not really asleep. Just staring into the darkness. Until Emma snuggled into my arms. “Still awake?” She leaned up to kiss me but missed. After a moment’s pause, she hugged me, suppressing her temper, “Who upset you? I’ll take care of them, okay?” “Emma.” “Hmm.” The room was so dark I couldn’t see her face. But I could smell the gardenia scent on her. “Let’s break up.” Emma’s body stiffened, then she let go and rolled away, “What’s wrong now?” She rubbed her temples impatiently, “We’re not kids anymore, why are you being so sensitive?” “Break up?” She laughed, “James, you’re not young anymore. Who would want to marry a man who smokes, drinks, has tattoos, and does dirty work?” My chest ached. I pressed hard against my heart, but couldn’t suppress the sharp pain. Last year when I had stitches in my arm, I was allergic to anesthesia. Twelve stitches, sewn without numbing, and I didn’t make a sound. But Emma’s few honest words, fueled by alcohol, brought tears to my eyes. “Emma,” I couldn’t help but want to ask her, “If I had a terminal illness, would you—” “James.” She cut me off, her brow furrowed with impatience, “Stop asking such pointless questions.” “If you really had a terminal illness, would you want me to commit suicide with you?” She rubbed her forehead, “I’m busy with the wedding and business lately. I don’t have the energy to coddle you, so stop being dramatic.” As she spoke, her phone suddenly rang. Emma irritably hung up. But the caller persisted. After a few back-and-forths, Emma got out of bed with her phone, “What is it?” The boy’s voice came through the receiver, indistinct. Emma sighed, “What a hassle.” Despite her words, she hurriedly left the room. “There’s a problem with the business, I need to go deal with it.” “Go to sleep, don’t wait up for me.”
Emma and I set our wedding date for the third of next month. It was to be a simple ceremony. I never told Emma about my illness. Terminal stage, basically incurable. I also never told Emma that I had no intention of marrying her. I could accept everything about Emma. Except for betrayal. The thought of her nestling in another man’s arms, kissing his face, searching for traces of my younger self in him, made my stomach churn. It was sickening. I’ve been with Emma since I was eighteen, a full ten years now. The doctors say I have about six months left to live. By that calculation, I’ve wasted nearly half my life on her. For the little time I have left, I just want to be James Harper. I’ve booked a flight out of the country. While I still have the strength, I want to see the world I’ve always loved but never had the chance to explore. And the flight is scheduled for the third of next month.
Early in the morning, I crossed off another day on the calendar. Ten days left until my departure. I heard the door open behind me. Emma came in, wrapped in snow and wind. She took off her coat and came to hug me. She still didn’t like my hair. Her gaze followed mine to the calendar. Emma looked at the heavily circled date and laughed softly, gently pinching my cheek, “Can’t wait to marry me, huh?” She counted the days, “Just ten more.” She buried her face in my neck, “I’ll find some time in the next couple of days to help you dye your hair back to black and get it styled, okay?” “You’ll look so handsome at the wedding.” “No need.” I stared at the calendar expressionlessly, “Not much time left.” “This hairstyle is fine as it is.” Emma was silent for a while, “Okay.” She let go and picked up her coat from the chair, “There’s a lot to do for the wedding. One of our clubs got trashed yesterday, I’ll be busy for a while, so I won’t be coming home.” Emma watched me as she spoke. As if waiting for me to give in. Waiting for me to say, okay, come with me to dye my hair, to get it styled. But I just looked back at her coldly. “Go ahead.” “After all, there’s only ten days left.” Emma said nothing, turning to step into the night. She didn’t look back.
Seven days before the wedding. I went to a tattoo parlor in the suburbs. The owner was a woman in her thirties, well-maintained but with world-weary eyes. She glanced at me, “What do you want tattooed?” I rolled up my sleeve, pointing to the “ES” on my wrist bone, then exposed the gardenia below my collarbone. “Remove them both.” The owner looked, “Removing them will be painful, and it’ll leave scars.” I smiled, “I’m not afraid.” Pain is the least of my worries now. As for scars— I have so many scars all over my body, what’s two more? Besides, in half a year, this body might just be ashes. The owner chatted with me, “Broke up?” I smiled, “Yeah, soon.” “Seven days left.” The owner clicked her tongue, “So ceremonial, even a countdown for the breakup?” Perhaps because the shop was so quiet, or maybe because I felt a connection with the owner, somehow, I felt like we were kindred spirits from the first glance. I told her about my past. Back when Emma was pursuing me, I gave her a deadline. Three hundred days. If she could persist, I’d be with her. So, every morning when Emma appeared before me, she’d count the days. “Countdown: one hundred and seventy-nine days.” “James, ninety-six days left, and you’ll be my boyfriend.” “One day left, almost-boyfriend.” … The girl who persisted through rain or shine for three hundred days to win me over. Yet in the ten years that followed. She gradually grew tired. I got along well with the owner, Lily. As she removed my tattoos, I told her the meaning behind them. The “ES” on my wrist bone was tattooed a year after Emma and I got together. I had been kidnapped by her enemies, used to threaten her. Emma came alone to save me. Knowing it was a deadly trap, she went without hesitation. That time, she nearly died. When she was discharged from the hospital, I went to a tattoo parlor and had her initials tattooed on my wrist bone. I naively thought then. I’d dedicate my life to Emma. But that night, when I proudly showed my still-red wrist to Emma, she was stunned. There was no emotion I had imagined. She frowned, first asking why, then if it hurt. Finally, she hugged me, “Don’t do this again, I don’t like it.” “I don’t like you hurting yourself.” “You’re perfect as you are, you don’t need to change. I love the clean, flawless James.” I was young then, thought she was just concerned for me. Little did I know, Emma had already spoken her true feelings. The gardenia on my chest was tattooed when Emma swore she’d marry me when she turned twenty-eight. Emma loved gardenias, loved their pure white petals. So I tattooed it on my chest. Waiting for Emma to marry me. Now, Emma has finally set the wedding date in my twenty-eighth year, she’s planning our wedding seven days from now. While I’m planning how to leave her. Though this body is already in ruins, I still don’t want to leave with any marks related to her. I pointed to the other side below my collarbone, telling Lily. “Tattoo a trumpet creeper flower here.” Emma loves gardenias. But I prefer trumpet creepers. She wants me naive and ignorant. But in the little time I have left, I want to be like the trumpet creeper, proud and climbing high walls.
It was evening when I left the tattoo parlor. Lily and I got along well, we exchanged contact information and added each other on SnapChat. On my way home, I passed a cotton candy stand. I couldn’t help but stop. The last time I had it was probably when I was a child, when my grandmother was still alive. She would take out all the change she had to buy me some when I couldn’t move from craving it so much. She always watched me eat it all, then teasingly called me a “little glutton.” Grandma always loved to watch me smile. Her wrinkles deepening on her aged face as she smiled. A cold wind blew, scattering the memories. I walked to the stand and bought a rabbit-shaped cotton candy. It was sweet. As sickeningly sweet as I remembered. Passing a street corner, I heard a boy asking loudly, “Mom, look, that guy looks so cool! But why is he eating cotton candy?” “Isn’t that for kids?” The mom laughed and explained, “Who says cotton candy is only for kids? Everyone can eat it. Having something sweet makes people happier.” I walked by quietly. Then I heard a little girl’s innocent voice, “But, even after eating such sweet cotton candy, why doesn’t the guy look happy at all?” “Mom, he looks so lonely…” The voices faded away. By the time I got home, the cotton candy was gone, leaving only sticky hands. I went in and washed my hands. Then I received a call from Emma. She sounded drunk. “James.” “Yes?” She laughed a little on the other end, “Seven days left, and you’ll be marrying me.” “Tomorrow, will you come with me to choose a wedding dress?” “You can choose, you know my size.” Emma was silent for a moment. I faintly heard a man’s voice on the other end, “Emma, I’ll go with you to try on wedding dresses. Don’t you want me to see how you look in a wedding dress?”
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