Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 142

Emma refused to believe he hadn’t eaten outside. Cici had been wronged–shouldn’t he be falling over himself to comfort her?

“Fallon’s asleep. Please don’t wake her–she’s human, not a machine,” Emma shot back from the hallway, her tone sharp.

“When did I say I’d bother Fallon? You’re Mrs. Whitman. Can’t you get me a glass of milk?” He tailed her closely.

“The milk’s in the fridge. If you still have hands, you can open it yourself.”

“I want it warm. Can’t you heat it up for me?”

Emma spun around, eyes flashing. “Lost the use of your hands, have you? You cook for your precious Cici, but can’t manage to warm up some milk for yourself?”

They were suddenly face to face.

His gaze was unreadable, dark.

What Emma didn’t expect was for him to reach out and pinch her cheek, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Women and their jealousy–absolutely impossible to reason with. Haven’t I cooked for you before? Who made dinner at Grandma’s that night?”

Emma slapped his hand away, swearing to herself she had zero jealousy–she just couldn’t resist needling him!

But before she could process what happened, he swept her up, tossed her onto the bed.

“And in high school–never tasted my fried chicken?” He hovered over her, breath thick with whiskey.

He’d been drinking again. No wonder he was acting so strange!

“You ungrateful little thing, gave the chicken to the neighbor’s dog, didn’t you?” He was still sprawled over her, a weird edge of wounded pride in his voice.

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“Enough!” she protested. Now he wanted to reminisce about high school? Wasn’t he the one who used to say every move she made was just to chase him? She couldn’t handle it. “Let’s not talk about high school. I barely remember any of it.”

He leaned in, his eyes just inches from hers, dark and turbulent. “You forgot?”

“Yes.” And she really didn’t want to remember.

He brushed loose strands of hair from her face, his fingers tinged with the faint scent of alcohol as he cupped her cheeks.

“No wonder Jared says jealous women could tear down the sky.” He sighed. “Go on, keep pretending.”

“Theodore,” she said deliberately, each word measured, “I’m telling you again—I’m not jealous.”

He let out a low, skeptical laugh.

“Theodore, listen. You can only get jealous if you’re in love.” Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, her mind far away, recalling a boy blowing leaves under a sycamore tree, a group of friends sharing pastries under a golden willow. “Theodore, I don’t love you anymore.”

There was only a faint ache in her chest, a bittersweet farewell to the foolish girl who’d loved him for twelve years. Hey, me from twelve years ago–today, I’m telling you, you loved the wrong person, but I’ve finally set things right.

“Idiot.” He didn’t believe her. He ruffled her hair, then got up. “I’m going to

shower.”

He left for the bathroom. Emma turned over and went to sleep.

Her phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message from Renee.

Renee was coming back from a business trip and wanted to meet up for

dinner.

They started chatting. Emma and Renee had been desk partners for

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several semesters in high school–close friends, really. They’d kept in touch through college, and even after Emma married Theodore, Renee had reached out a few times, though Emma always declined any

invitations to meet up.

Now Renee asked her directly: Why did you stop coming out with everyone? Why’d you cut off contact? Was it really because Theodore was too possessive?

Emma replied: Of course not.

Back in high school, hardly anyone knew about Emma’s leg injury. She hadn’t invited any of her old classmates to her wedding, and after getting married, she’d lost touch with almost all of them. Most people only “heard” she was married.

Now that she was about to see Renee, Emma felt she should at least mention it so she explained that her mobility wasn’t great these days, but didn’t give a reason.

Renee instinctively asked, What happened?

Emma dodged the question, and Renee seemed to pick up on it, dropping

the subject. They finalized dinner plans and wished each other

goodnight.

After closing her chat with Renee, Emma kept thinking about that question: What happened?

A flood of emotions welled up. She picked up her phone again, acting on impulse, and posted to her feed: Five years ago, I saved a dog.

Almost immediately, Renée commented: So that’s why…?

Before Emma could reply–or even figure out how to respond–Renee sent a screenshot of the post: Is this what happened?

Yes, Emma replied.

Renee: Can we talk?

Emma called her right away.

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It was the first time in five years she’d heard Renee’s voice. When her own name sounded through the speaker-“Emma“-she felt an unexpected, aching sense of nostalgia. “It’s me. I’m fine, really. It’s all in the past.”

As soon as she finished speaking, Emma heard movement behind her. Theodore came out of the bathroom and climbed into bed.

“Emma, I don’t know what to say…” Renee’s voice trailed off, just as Theodore wrapped his arms around her from behind, his low voice murmuring, “Mrs. Whitman…”