Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 338

Those people came and went in a flash.

In no time, Theodore was left alone, hunched over the trash can by his car, retching but unable to bring anything up. His stomach twisted in knots.

The janitor emerged from the garage, took one look at the mess scattered across the floor, and exploded at Theodore. “Look at you, all dressed up like a gentleman, and this is the kind of crap you pull? Of all the things you could mess with, you choose garbage? Maybe you are garbage! Why don’t you throw yourself in the dumpster while you’re at it?”

She punctuated her tirade by jabbing her broom at his feet.

Theodore couldn’t even defend himself. He fought the urge to vomit as he took the broom from her, mumbling, “I’m sorry… ugh… ma’am… let me… I’ll clean it up… ugh…”

“Hmph. Clean it good! And don’t forget to mop the floor!” she barked, unwilling to cut him any slack.

Around the corner, behind a wall, a pair of people exchanged glances. They nodded, then slipped away.

They’d been planning to clean up after Theodore left, but since he was doing it himself, they figured they’d let him. After all, that’s where he belonged—down in the dirt with the trash.

There was no way Theodore could show his face at the office in this state. Once he finished cleaning, he drove home.

He showered again, scrubbing away the grime and humiliation, then sat in a chair, staring off into space.

It was Emma’s chair—the one she used to sit in all the time. She’d curl up here to binge her favorite shows, read a book, and, yes, sometimes to practice her English.

Her things were still scattered on the desk. Pens filled the holder, and the books she’d been reading—mostly on art history—were stacked neatly on the surface.

He pulled open a drawer, finding it packed with even more books. He picked one at random—an IELTS prep book.

He remembered her English had never been great. She’d studied art, and as far as he could recall, her grades in high school were nothing to write home about. The last time he’d flipped through her IELTS practice book, her answers had been all over the place.

But as he leafed through it now, something caught his eye. Her reading scores—she’d managed a 7.

He looked closer. Every test was dated, each one carefully marked with the exact day and month she’d finished it.

I don’t even want him anymore…

So, she’d truly made up her mind to leave him back then.

Every time she’d brought up divorce, she’d meant it. It hadn’t been a ploy to get him to ask her to stay, nor was it a tactic to drive Cici away. She really, truly wanted out.

He read on. She’d chronicled every small hurt, every little thing that weighed on her heart in the twenty-odd days leading up to her trip to Europe—things he’d always dismissed as trivial. With each passing day, she withdrew a little further. Died a little more inside.

He lowered his head and rested his forehead on her notebook, eyes stinging.

If, in those twenty-some days, he had just once tried to see things from her perspective, maybe he could have turned things around. But he hadn’t.

He’d stubbornly bulldozed ahead, straight into darkness, and finally, he and Emma had reached the point of no return.

He’d always believed she’d never leave him, never walk out of their home. That’s why, time and again, he’d chosen to side with Cici.