Mark’s frantic reply followed: “What’s wrong?
Don’t scare me, Lily! I give up, okay! I‘||
divorce her!”
There was no further reply from Lily.
His words, “I’ll divorce her,” cut me to shreds.
I remembered his strange behavior on the
plane, the furrowed brow as he listened to
music, his restlessness.
Pages of missed calls in his call log, the
usually aloof Mark persistently dialing the
same number.
He’d never been so distraught in front of me
before.
But now, he’d gone after his “Babygirl,”
leaving me behind.
3
Back home, I couldn’t function for days.
After graduation, Lily and I hadn’t crossed
paths. I had no idea Mark still felt so strongly
for her.
Our years together felt like a lie. I’d never
truly known him.
The story continued to unfold.
News of Mark’s suicide spread.
The timing was too coincidental, both having
been in the same class at Northwood High.
People quickly unearthed their teenage
romance, posting videos online that went viral
overnight.
Videos of them in their innocent school
uniforms, laughing and teasing, then parting
ways for unknown reasons, their unspoken
love never voiced.
They’d both achieved success in their
respective fields, but even at the top, they
could no longer embrace each other.
My heart felt hollow, numbly replaying the
videos.
One showed Mark in a suit at a corporate
event, his eyes fixed on Lily, a vision in a red
dress on stage, his gaze full of longing and
pain.
His secret Twitter account, every year on the
same day, wished Lily a happy birthday. He’d
post a picture of her favorite bunny,
whispering, “Happy birthday, Lily.”
He even carried a cheap wristwatch, a gift
from Lily years ago, never letting anyone
touch it.
The vibrant actress and the reserved business
executive, a story of unrequited love, mutual
regret, culminating in a double suicide.
Everyone wept, calling them a modern–day
Romeo and Juliet.
And me, the wife, the villain of the piece.
I laughed and cried hysterically.
Mark and I had been childhood sweethearts
for twenty years. Even when his family went
bankrupt, I found ways to help him, careful
not to hurt his pride.
After college, I stood by him as he built his
business from scratch, enduring ramen
noodles and cramped apartments.
On frigid winter nights, we huddled together
for warmth.
He’d kiss me, sharing dreams of our future.
But all that companionship couldn’t compare
to a fleeting high school romance with Lily.
Did my time, my youth, mean nothing to him?
I hadn’t anticipated what came next.
My personal information was leaked.
On my way to collect Mark’s ashes, a group
of radical fans ambushed me. One threw acid
in my face, screaming, “Homewrecker! You
ruined Lily and Mark! Die!”
The burning acid seared my skin and eyes.
Agony consumed me.
“Aghhh!!!”
I sat up, jolted awake.
The classroom stared back at me.
“Jenna Davis, not only are you sleeping in my
class, you’re talking in your sleep! Just
because your family has money doesn’t mean
you can do whatever you want.”
4
My vision cleared.
I saw my high school math teacher, Mr.
Henderson, glaring at me.
And beside me, sat Mark, posture relaxed,
staring at the blackboard.
He wore his signature black–rimmed glasses,
hair falling onto his forehead, the picture of
youthful confidence.
I heard whispers. “Jenna’s bugging Mark for
tutoring again. Too bad she’s hopeless, all
she does is sleep.”
“Mark must be so annoyed, the class
valedictorian stuck with a rich airhead.”
Mr. Henderson boomed, “Jenna Davis, what’s
the answer to this problem? If you don’t
know, go stand outside.”
My college major had nothing to do with
math. I’d long forgotten everything from high
school.
