West Coast East Heart Chapter 04
“Eve, Clara hurt her foot. I need to go check on her first.”
His eyes held urgency, but also a hint of unease.
He was gambling.
Gambling on whether I would lose my temper.
But I was very calm. I just nodded lightly.
“Okay.”
He seemed surprised that I agreed so readily. A flash of surprise crossed his eyes.
“So… I’ll leave the rest of the paperwork to you?”
I nodded.
“Sure.”
His expression shifted. He almost looked guilty.
“Eve, you’re the most understanding.”
He walked over and took my hand.
“Actually, this works out. I’ll go ahead and get things set up so it’s not so rushed when you arrive.”
He seemed to have found a reasonable excuse for himself.
“I’ll wait for your message. I’ll pick you up at the airport then.”
I pulled my hand back, still calm.
“You go ahead and take care of things.”
I turned around and continued packing.
His hand froze in midair. He didn’t react for a second.
Just then, another message from Clara popped up.
“Adrian, did you book your ticket yet? My foot is swelling up…”
Without a second thought, he grabbed a few random clothes, rushed out the door, and drove straight to Logan International Airport.
The next day, Clara updated her Instagram.
In the photo, Adrian was wearing an apron, looking down as he chopped vegetables.
The caption read: “Dinner tonight is homemade steak with red wine. Feels so nice to have someone cook just for me.”
Something slammed hard into my chest.
So he knew how to cook.
For ten years in Boston, I had done all the cooking.
I remembered that one winter when I came down with a terrible flu. My fever hit 102 degrees.
For two whole days, I ate nothing at all.
“Adrian, I want some hot soup… Could you make me a bowl?”
He was watching a New England Patriots game. His brow furrowed when he heard me.
“I don’t know how to cook.”
Eventually, he grudgingly grabbed his coat.
“I’ll go downstairs to Whole Foods and get you something ready-made.”
I waited forty minutes.
What I got was a carton of cold milk and a cold sandwich—brought back after he had eaten his fill.
At the time, I was so hurt I wanted to cry.
But later, I convinced myself.
Everyone has strengths and weaknesses.
I couldn’t expect too much from him.
Now I understand. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook.
He just didn’t want to do it for me.
The house sold. Our Subaru sold. The joint bank account closed.
A decade of accumulation, compressed within a month into a few boxes, a few documents, a few wire transfers.
I sorted out his belongings one by one and shipped them all to Geneva via international courier.
Three days later, Adrian called.
“Eve, I got the luggage. When’s your flight?”
He hadn’t even noticed that only his luggage was there. None of my things were in it.
I answered flatly.
“In three days.”
His voice carried excitement.
“I’ll pick you up at the airport then. Send me your flight number.”
“Clara was so happy when she heard you were coming. She says she wants to try your apple pie. I’ve been craving it for days myself.”
I stayed silent.
I hadn’t even arrived yet, and they were already assigning me chores.
“Eve? You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll pick you up, and we can go grocery shopping together.”
I didn’t respond.
But he hung up directly.
It was as if he simply assumed I would accept it.
He just didn’t know that I had already prepared a little surprise for him…