Chapter 1Smoked Out of My Marriage

I quit smoking eight years ago for my wife.

But last month, when I accompanied her to pick up her annual physical results, the doctor called me into his office alone.

"Your wife has a ground-glass nodule in the upper lobe of her left lung. We recommend further testing."

My knees went weak right there in the office. "But she doesn't smoke. How is that possible?"

The doctor gave me a long, clinical look. "Prolonged exposure to secondhand smoke can cause this as well."

I froze.

My wife didn't just avoid smoking; she couldn't stand even the slightest hint of cigarette smoke.

That night, for the first time in nearly a decade, I smoked an entire pack.

...

* * *

"The physical report came back. It's a ground-glass nodule. Six millimeters."

I laid the report flat on the dining table, keeping my voice as steady as possible.

Diana didn't even look up. She picked up a piece of asparagus with her fork, her tone as casual as if she were talking about the weather.

"I know. I'll get it rechecked eventually."

I stared at her expressionless face, my fingers gripping the edges of the report until my knuckles turned white.

Six millimeters.

The doctor said at this size, she needed a follow-up CT scan in three months. If it grew any larger, they would have to consider a needle biopsy.

"Diana, let me ask you something."

She finally lifted her gaze slightly.

"Is there anyone around you who smokes?"

Her fork paused. It was almost imperceptible, but she quickly resumed eating.

"No."

"The doctor said prolonged exposure to secondhand smoke is a major risk factor. Are you sure there's no one?"

"Thomas, I said no, and I mean no."

She set her fork down, took her plate into the kitchen, and turned on the faucet. The rushing water drowned out any chance of further conversation. The discussion was over.

I lit a cigarette.

For eight years, I hadn't touched a single one. This was the first time I had ever lit up in our apartment.

The moment the smoke drifted into the air, her voice from years ago echoed in my mind—If you want a future with me, you need to quit. I can't stand the smell.

So I quit. From twenty-three to thirty-one, a solid eight years. I didn't touch a single cigarette, not even at corporate dinners or networking events.

Halfway through the cigarette, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Diana. She was just in the bedroom, but she couldn't even be bothered to walk out and speak to me.

Don't smoke in the living room. I have a client meeting tomorrow.

No question about why I had suddenly started smoking again. No inquiry into whether I was having a bad day. Not even a single question mark.

I stubbed out the cigarette, threw open the window, and let the cold autumn air rush in to clear the room.

My phone buzzed again. It wasn't Diana. It was an Instagram post from her colleague, Curtis Wells. The three of us had gone to college together, keeping a polite, distant friendship over the years.

The photo showed a rooftop patio late at night. Curtis had a cigarette between his lips, and someone was sitting right next to him. I pinched the screen to zoom in.

It was Diana.

She was sitting close to him, wrapped in a scarf, holding a warm mug. In the background were the glowing lights of the office district.

The caption read: Working past midnight. Shoutout to Diana for staying up late with me to finish this proposal.

In the photo, Curtis's cigarette was actively burning, wisps of smoke drifting from his fingers. Diana was sitting less than two feet away.

I locked my phone, unlocked it, and locked it again. Then, I walked over to the bedroom door.

"Diana."

"Yeah?" Her voice was muffled; she was probably putting on a face mask.

"Has Curtis been pulling a lot of overtime lately?"

"We're in the final stretch of the project. The whole department is working late."

"He smokes right next to you and you don't say anything?"

A brief, heavy silence followed.

"When did this happen?"

"Curtis just posted a photo on Instagram. You're sitting right next to him on the rooftop."

The door swung open. Diana stood there, her face covered in a white sheet mask, leaving only her eyes visible. She looked at me as if I were a child throwing a tantrum.

"He was having a rough night, so I sat with him for a bit. What about it?"

"He has a rough night so he gets to smoke right next to you? I thought you couldn't stand the smell of smoke."

"It's an open rooftop, Thomas, not a sealed room. Stop trying to connect dots that aren't there."

"I'm not connecting dots. You have a growth on your lung, and the doctor said it's linked to secondhand smoke—"

"Thomas."

She cut me off. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was freezing.

"Curtis is my colleague and our mutual friend. When he’s going through a tough time, sitting with him is just basic human decency. If you can't even trust me on that, then we have nothing left to talk about."

The edge of her mask peeled back slightly. She patted it down with a finger, turned around, and shut the door.

I stood in the hallway, a hollow laugh escaping my throat.

Eight years ago, she made me quit smoking because she couldn't tolerate even a trace of it. Yet when Curtis smoked in front of her, she could sit there with him until the early hours of the morning.

Where was the difference?

I didn't know. All I knew was that I smoked half a pack that night, huddled on the balcony with the windows sealed shut, terrified that a single draft of smoke might slip inside.

Because she couldn't stand it.

No, that wasn't it. She just couldn't stand mine.