Speaker 1: Amanda's laugh always carries light, delighted, the way someone sounds
Speaker 1: after a night of good sales or excellent wine. I
Speaker 1: heard it before I saw her rounding the corner of
Speaker 1: South Congress with an armful of canvas wrapped boxes. We
Speaker 1: nearly collided, Me dodging a rented escooter, Amanda dodging the drizzle,
Speaker 1: both of us arrested by the cheerful chaos of the
Speaker 1: Saturday morning gallery circuit. Layla, thank you so much for
Speaker 1: lending me Chris last Friday. Her smile was open, genuine.
Speaker 1: I used to envy that kind of ease. Oh, Amanda,
Speaker 1: you're welcome. My words landed somewhere between a greeting and
Speaker 1: a question. He said he was helping with a late
Speaker 1: install She nodded, tucking a strand of frizzy curls under
Speaker 1: her beret. Yes, late night. Just couldn't have managed without him.
Speaker 1: He's got this energy, you know, always lifts the room anyway.
Speaker 1: Grateful you let him sneak out for us. Was it
Speaker 1: him who told you that joke about the raccoon mural?
Speaker 1: I offered a weak laugh, covering for my confusion. Chris
Speaker 1: has a lot of jokes and he'd said he'd been
Speaker 1: at poker with THEO and the others. My mind tried
Speaker 1: to catch up, fingers fidgeting with the recycled canvas bag
Speaker 1: on my hip, the one Chris always teased me about
Speaker 1: being pique eco hipster. Amanda's phone buzzed, Sorry, got to
Speaker 1: dash reception s in fifteen you two drop by soon.
Speaker 1: O Ka. She gave my shoulder a friendly squeeze, then
Speaker 1: half jogged toward the gallery, her laughter fading between door
Speaker 1: chimes and the splash of tires on wet pavement. I
Speaker 1: stood there a minute too long, letting Chris out. He
Speaker 1: hated late night in stalls. I replayed her phrasing, lent
Speaker 1: late night so happy. He said, yes, he d told
Speaker 1: me poker night. And when I'd come home past ten
Speaker 1: from my own project call, he was already in bed,
Speaker 1: messy haired, reading an old Jonathan Letham paperback. Maybe I'd misheard.
Speaker 1: Maybe I was tired. I did, after all, work until
Speaker 1: after nine. Maybe poker ran late and he ducked over
Speaker 1: to help afterwards. But A Manda spoke like he'd been
Speaker 1: hers for the whole night, a helper, a fixture, something
Speaker 1: about the ownership in her words clung to me, a
Speaker 1: burr beneath my skin. My phone buzzed text from Chris
Speaker 1: running errands coffee home soon love you. I looked up
Speaker 1: at the gleaming oustin rain then turned into our street,
Speaker 1: lined with the gavy plants and small rental homes with
Speaker 1: too many wind chimes. A house had been a project,
Speaker 1: the kind that exhausts you on demo day, but when
Speaker 1: you finish, your friends want to throw a party just
Speaker 1: to marvel. The windows flashed with passing clouds, every sill
Speaker 1: overfull with the potted jungle Cris collected rubber fig pothos,
Speaker 1: that single tragic orchid. It was nearly noon and Chris
Speaker 1: still wasn't home. I set my grocery bags on the
Speaker 1: table and pressed a palm flat to the quartz countertop.
Speaker 1: The air in the house felt heavier than usual, humming
Speaker 1: with the sound of the rain gutter outside. I found
Speaker 1: my mind replaying Amanda's little slip, replaying the gap Poker
Speaker 1: night or gallery, and wondering, maybe for the first time
Speaker 1: in years, why I should feel as if there was
Speaker 1: something I didn't know. Suspicion is an ugly, dogged thing.
Speaker 1: It starts out like static behind the music present ignorable.
Speaker 1: But as I waited for Chris, going about quiet chores,
Speaker 1: it lingered, unresolved, accord not returning to home. When Chris
Speaker 1: finally breezed in, arms full of overpriced cold brew and
Speaker 1: the world's ugliest wax bagel, I smiled, but a question
Speaker 1: had settled into a chair between us, waiting its turn.
Speaker 1: When people ask how we met, I always say fate
Speaker 1: plus tacos. Eight years ago, a food truck festival, a
Speaker 1: broken umbrella, him offering his spare napkin when my salca
Speaker 1: went flying down my shirt. It was ugly weather, then too,
Speaker 1: a spring thunderstorm blowing through the pop up tents. That
Speaker 1: first hour, we laughed about everything but the food, college mistakes,
Speaker 1: jobs gone wrong, tinder disasters. Chris could tell us story,
Speaker 1: especially when it was at his own expense, better than anyone.
Speaker 1: What I can't explain fully even now is how quickly
Speaker 1: we fell into being ourselves together. It wasn't the wild
Speaker 1: rush of infatuation that you see in movies, not quite.
Speaker 1: It was this sense of instant comfort, the gentle shock
Speaker 1: of recognizing someone in a crowd as a little bit yours.
Speaker 1: Chris was disarmingly funny, never mean, one of those people
Speaker 1: who pays attention, who remembers your weird allergy, or calls
Speaker 1: your mom on her birthday without prompting. Warm That's what
Speaker 1: Zara called him. He's warm like a preheated kitchen, she said,
Speaker 1: And for years that warmth made every harsh corner of
Speaker 1: my own personality feel softened. I'd always been told I
Speaker 1: was driven by old bosses, by my mother, by ex's
Speaker 1: who found my late night work sprints intimidating at best,
Speaker 1: I was ambitious, at worst intense. With Chris, I never
Speaker 1: had to scale myself down or apologize for being a
Speaker 1: little too much. Year one, we were inseparable music festivals,
Speaker 1: pop up dinners, back of the truck, slow dancing to
Speaker 1: terrible Spotify playlists. By year three, we'd built out a
Speaker 1: little two bedroom that made it our home in every
Speaker 1: possible way. All art. We picked out, drunk on a
Speaker 1: Sunday indoor hammocks, plants everywhere. We started our dinner club
Speaker 1: with Zara and Michael, who became Saturday Night family, and
Speaker 1: weekly crossword marathons were sacred. If you'd ask two years
Speaker 1: ago about our weak spots, I would have shrugged. We
Speaker 1: fought sure over travel plans, whose turn it was to mop,
Speaker 1: which of us had forgotten the anniversary. But everything was
Speaker 1: negotiated in the open. That was what made us us,
Speaker 1: the knowledge that either of us could say anything and
Speaker 1: the other would listen, or or at least try. There were,
Speaker 1: of course, vulnerabilities. Chris hated conflict more than anything. He'd
Speaker 1: rather fix the vibe, as he'd say, than battle out grievances.
Speaker 1: I worried about being too much, consuming all the air
Speaker 1: in the room. The one thing we both prized, maybe
Speaker 1: to a fault, was honesty, Blunt, sometimes awkward, always trusted.
Speaker 1: The last year changed some of our routines. I'd poured
Speaker 1: myself into my design firm, long days evenings, hunched over samples,
Speaker 1: running project bids, return calls. That meant dinner got pushed late.
Speaker 1: Chris picked up a big contract backoned for a major
Speaker 1: travel app, and his schedule spun out late nights, scrums
Speaker 1: with clients sometimes gone for days. If the servers crashed
Speaker 1: our dinner, club attendants thinned. Zara and Michael joked we
Speaker 1: were ghosting, But at least Chris kept texting the group chat,
Speaker 1: sending memes, or coordinating the odd Sunday brunch, he started
Speaker 1: bringing up more art happenings, small galleries, pop up installations
Speaker 1: that a year ago he'd have rolled his eyes at.
Speaker 1: I like art, but I don't need to mingle with
Speaker 1: people who use curatorial as a verb. Lately, though, he'd
Speaker 1: come home electric after those events. The city's changing, new
Speaker 1: energy out there, he'd say, talking about people I barely knew.
Speaker 1: Instead of commiserating about our field's nonsense, he'd launch into
Speaker 1: stories about a sculptor he met, or an old school
Speaker 1: printmaker who invited him for drinks. I chalked it up
Speaker 1: to pandemic fatigue, maybe, or the wear of too much
Speaker 1: time on slack and too little time in the world.
Speaker 1: We still had our rituals, Sunday cross words, music by
Speaker 1: candle light, late night cassadias on our battered La Cruzet
Speaker 1: when we both came in exhausted, but I could feel,
Speaker 1: in some subtle register a new unevenness. Nothing I would
Speaker 1: call a rift, just the occasional radio static of missed
Speaker 1: connection that made Amanda's comments stick well past breakfast. We
Speaker 1: weren't the type to run surveillance on each other. That
Speaker 1: trust was the foundation, the reason we worked still a
Speaker 1: pinprick of doubt is hard to ignore, even in the
Speaker 1: happiest house. The next time, Chris and I both landed
Speaker 1: at the kitchen table after work, a rare alignment. He
Speaker 1: was thumb scrolling his phone, half smiling at something, a
Speaker 1: new lightness in his movement. I set down a grocery receipt.
Speaker 1: Amanda says, thanks for your help with the late night
Speaker 1: install Friday. Chris didn't look up immediately, just shifted in
Speaker 1: his seat, then grinned. Oh right. THEO called while you
Speaker 1: were on your conference call, said Amanda needed a couple
Speaker 1: of people to help haul a big piece. I figured
Speaker 1: i'd skip poker do something useful. Not exactly glamorous, but whatever.
Speaker 1: You were on that call until late anyway, I wondered
Speaker 1: for half a second if he was reading my face
Speaker 1: too closely, because his answer came out just a little
Speaker 1: too even ke he'd rehearsed it. I told THEO to
Speaker 1: give you credit for the assist, he added, suddenly talking faster.
Speaker 1: It sounded logical, believable. Even if Chris had changed plans.
Speaker 1: Maybe he hadn't remembered to tell me. Maybe I'd simply
Speaker 1: been too distracted to care. Still, the incident wouldn't leave
Speaker 1: me rehearsed. Did he know Amanda would mention it? We
Speaker 1: moved on, talked about nothing, h VAC repair bills, the
Speaker 1: plant that was probably dead, what to order for dinner.
Speaker 1: I filed Amanda's phrasing away, chalking my unease up to
Speaker 1: a week of overtime and too many skipped pilates classes.
Speaker 1: But that night, as I packed up my laptop, it
Speaker 1: occurred to me I was no longer entirely sure which
Speaker 1: nights Chris was home, which he was? Since when had
Speaker 1: his comings and goings gotten so unpredictable? I replayed my
Speaker 1: own week late work nights for me, a few client
Speaker 1: drinks for him, one poker night, a couple of unexplained
Speaker 1: tech checkins. Hadn't he promised a lake high two week
Speaker 1: ends in a row, only to bail last minute for
Speaker 1: emergencies that never made sense when I heard him describe them,
Speaker 1: I told myself it was silly, a flicker of mild
Speaker 1: distrust fueled by too many hours at my drafting table,
Speaker 1: not evidence of anything real. Still, I texted Zara on
Speaker 1: a whim, Hey has Chris actually become an art fan?
Speaker 1: Or is he just bored? Of us. Her answer was
Speaker 1: animated as always funny you ask, I think your boy's
Speaker 1: got the creative bug. He mentioned some group chat invited
Speaker 1: us to the new exhibit last week, but I bilaid
Speaker 1: kind and nice. He's out meeting new people. Maybe it'll
Speaker 1: rub off on you. Pee. I tried to laugh, texted
Speaker 1: back something breezy, but her vagueness was weird. Which group
Speaker 1: who were these people? Was Chris lonely or restless or both?
Speaker 1: To be clear, I didn't catch him in a lie,
Speaker 1: not exactly. I simply became aware that I could no
Speaker 1: longer rattle off his schedule the way I once did.
Speaker 1: My mind, Ever, the designer's mind wanted to map connections,
Speaker 1: spot patterns, fit missing pieces into a hole. Instead, I
Speaker 1: found myself staring at our living room, a space we
Speaker 1: built together, loaded with visible evidence of our supposed taste
Speaker 1: and values, and feeling for the first time like a
Speaker 1: stranger in my own home. Some things escalate quietly. The
Speaker 1: art group, for example, who kept appearing in our social
Speaker 1: universes in small and unpredictable ways. It started small. Chris
Speaker 1: began missing dinner club with creative excuses, tight deadline client crisis.
Speaker 1: THEO really needs an extra pair of hands, or my
Speaker 1: favorite is just too much, this weak babe. Yet on
Speaker 1: nights he claimed to be buried in code. He tag
Speaker 1: himself in photos at gallery openings, drinks in hand, a
Speaker 1: rise smile that felt different from the way he smiled
Speaker 1: for my camera. One Wednesday, I sat on the patio,
Speaker 1: reviewing client proposals and scrolling through Instagram for a little dopamine.
Speaker 1: There he was Chris, grinning most broadly, arms slung a
Speaker 1: little too easily around a woman I half recognized. Harper,
Speaker 1: a force of nature painter who ran the new pop
Speaker 1: up collective in East Austin. I remembered her mostly because
Speaker 1: she'd once locked herself out of the corp bathroom during
Speaker 1: a panel and told the story later with such explosive
Speaker 1: joy that the whole crowd doubled over. It wasn't jealousy,
Speaker 1: not really, it was incongruent. Chris didn't even like gallery knights,
Speaker 1: Yet here he was just one of the group. As
Speaker 1: he'd frame it later, the photo strung not because of
Speaker 1: the pose, but because he looked so available in it,
Speaker 1: relaxed in a new way that felt both unfamiliar and
Speaker 1: a little outside our reach. So you and Harper seemed
Speaker 1: pretty friendly. I tried to make it a joke the
Speaker 1: next night, as I chopped sirlantro while Chris set the table.
Speaker 1: He paused too long before answering, then shrugged and pressed
Speaker 1: his lips together. Harper, She's cool, just one of Amanda's friends,
Speaker 1: part of the group. You know, everyone bounces around, plans
Speaker 1: just happen. She's loud. He sounded bored by the topic.
Speaker 1: The conversation was over before it started. When I suggested
Speaker 1: tagging along for the next art night, just to see
Speaker 1: what all the fuss is about, Chris frowned. It's more
Speaker 1: a planning session than an event, not glamorous. Honestly, you'll
Speaker 1: be bored. Let's save our energy for the brunch next Sunday. Okay.
Speaker 1: I looked for signs he was brushing me off for
Speaker 1: some reason, but all he did was refill my wine
Speaker 1: glass and talk about what we should cook for Michael's birthday.
Speaker 1: Small things started to stack, missed dinners, a new group
Speaker 1: chat that he quietly tilted towards silence when I was
Speaker 1: in the room inside, jokes with people whose names blurred
Speaker 1: together for me, My text to him became more about groceries,
Speaker 1: reminders to water his plants, and remind us that, Hey,
Speaker 1: your mom's birthday is Saturday. His replies were warm but brief,
Speaker 1: full of can do and will do, but not much else.
Speaker 1: After dinner, I washed up and turned some things over
Speaker 1: in my mind. Maybe he just needed autonomy, God knows.
Speaker 1: I did, sometimes buried beneath revisions, glad for nights when
Speaker 1: nobody texted. Still, I noticed that he laughed less when
Speaker 1: we were together, that his touches grew less frequent, a
Speaker 1: light hand at my waist replaced by a quick peck
Speaker 1: on the forehead. Every instinct said to shake it off,
Speaker 1: but as days rolled forward, the patterns sharpened. I called
Speaker 1: THEO Chris's closest friend, under the guise of organizing a
Speaker 1: joint birthday for Michael, small talk, nostalgia, the usual. When
Speaker 1: I nudged THEO for stories about Chris's new artist phase,
Speaker 1: he shifted uncomfortably. Yeah, he's out pretty often now. The
Speaker 1: group's pretty welcoming. That's all. I can send you a
Speaker 1: Mander's invite for the next opening if you want. Chris
Speaker 1: just I dunno. He seems happy to get out, you know.
Speaker 1: He trailed off as if unsure how much to say
Speaker 1: or who he was protecting. When I pressed, his answers
Speaker 1: closed off further and I could hear the strain in
Speaker 1: his voice. He wasn't going to volunteer details. Two days later,
Speaker 1: as I soughted receipts for tax season, a hotel charge
Speaker 1: flagged on our joint account three hundred dollars to the Mirrordor,
Speaker 1: a boutique hotel known as an after dark haunt for
Speaker 1: visiting artists and musicians. The charge was from a night
Speaker 1: Chris claimed to have been pulling an all nighter at
Speaker 1: Theo's place, helping debugs a mystery bug. We always used
Speaker 1: aerbam for guests or crashed extra in our own home
Speaker 1: if friends were in town. I knew for a fact
Speaker 1: no out of town client was scheduled that week. That night, home,
Speaker 1: late after meetings, I found Chris in the living room
Speaker 1: with his laptop. I set the receipts on the table. Hey,
Speaker 1: what's this charge at the mirror door last Thursday? Did
Speaker 1: you forget we have our own couch. I tried to
Speaker 1: sound breezy, but my voice was thin. Chris looked up
Speaker 1: cheeks flushing. Oh, write that a client? I told you
Speaker 1: the LA guy wanted to talk through specks over drinks.
Speaker 1: It went late, so I comped a room for him,
Speaker 1: slept on theo's pull out. After boring, as it sounds,
Speaker 1: he avoided my eyes for a beat, then started rattling
Speaker 1: off technical updates for a project I didn't even know
Speaker 1: he was a part of. I almost wanted to believe him,
Speaker 1: but a feeling stuck. The past few weeks blurred into
Speaker 1: a kind of blurry, uneasy montage. Chris missed two dinner
Speaker 1: clubs in a row, excuses each time crunched time with
Speaker 1: his client. Art thing ran long, the usual evasions. I'd
Speaker 1: stopped fighting it, stopped even asking most days, but it
Speaker 1: was impossible to ignore that the wedge between us had
Speaker 1: gotten bigger. Our texts turned brisk and logistical. He seemed
Speaker 1: more at ease with the group and with me. His
Speaker 1: touch is fewer, the way he spoke to me more careful,
Speaker 1: like he was afraid of showing something, or may be worse,
Speaker 1: afraid of being found out. One night, after a particularly
Speaker 1: hollow silence overtakeout, I went for a solo walk. I
Speaker 1: passed Harper standing at Amanda's gallery steps a whirl of
Speaker 1: color and noise, a glass of bourbon in hand, a
Speaker 1: joke at the ready, and Chris's name dropped into conversation
Speaker 1: like a pebble in a still lake. He just has
Speaker 1: this talent for quiet support, you know when you need
Speaker 1: it most. She said it, not to me, but to
Speaker 1: groupie's clutching sketch bads, all Enamored by her intensity. By then,
Speaker 1: I felt locked outside a familiar room. My best friend,
Speaker 1: Zara tried to encourage me. You're both fried Lee. You're
Speaker 1: a workerholic, he's restless. Just cut each other's slack, book
Speaker 1: a trip, get back into your groove. She meant well,
Speaker 1: but her advice felt like medicine for some one else's symptoms.
Speaker 1: Chris came home later and later, always an excuse, always
Speaker 1: a story. I tried not to look for evidence, because
Speaker 1: what evidence would satisfy me that he was tired of
Speaker 1: our life, or maybe tired of me, or simply living
Speaker 1: out some quarter life script I'd already read in the
Speaker 1: pages of other relationships. I even attended a gallery event,
Speaker 1: hoping proximity might reset the spell. The space was cacophonous,
Speaker 1: yet colder than I'd hoped. Chris's circle always a little
Speaker 1: out of reach, all inside jokes and cleverer sides Harper
Speaker 1: radiant held caught in a crowd that orbited her warmth.
Speaker 1: They barely acknowledged me. Whatever jokes Chris shared there, they
Speaker 1: didn't make it back to our kitchen table. One evening,
Speaker 1: at the end of my rope, I cornered him. I asked,
Speaker 1: plain and careful about the mounting distance. He looked at me,
Speaker 1: exhaustion in his posture. Everythinges just out of sinc I
Speaker 1: pulled in every direction. The art group doesn't demand anything
Speaker 1: from me. They just let me be. He nodded, swallowing pain.
Speaker 1: I didn't think to ask who demands less of you, Lee,
Speaker 1: them or me, but I knew his answer. I lingered
Speaker 1: over the mirror door charge after a glass of cheap wine.
Speaker 1: I poked at his phone, more out of anxiety than
Speaker 1: true investigation. Nothing, no flagged texts, no evidence unless you
Speaker 1: counted a calendar invite title, just planning night. The rest
Speaker 1: was blank. I wanted desperately to believe that people could
Speaker 1: change in innocent ways, to believe that Chris was restless
Speaker 1: and that was all. But when you're locked out of
Speaker 1: your own story, every absence takes on a dangerous edge.
Speaker 1: I wondered how much loneliness it took to fracture a
Speaker 1: partnership built on truth. Friday night, a week after Amanda's
Speaker 1: oddly possessive thank you, I found myself alone again. Chris
Speaker 1: at work drinks, his language now so vague that I
Speaker 1: had to stop myself from asking for receipts. I facedi'med
Speaker 1: Zara under the pretense of menu planning, hoping for a
Speaker 1: sympathetic voice. Her eyes flickered away a few times when
Speaker 1: I mentioned Chris's new friends. Don't fixate Lee, Remember when
Speaker 1: you took that studio residency and he handled the whole house.
Speaker 1: People need space. He'll settle down soon. Somehow, the more
Speaker 1: people reassured me, the more isolated I felt. The hours
Speaker 1: grew long, the night's weirdly echoing the house. Our careful
Speaker 1: arrangement of souvenirs and memories felt increasingly like a museum
Speaker 1: without a curator. Saturday morning, Chris was bright again, energetic,
Speaker 1: like a man who'd finally slept a full night. He
Speaker 1: made elaborate French toast and sang along to Nina Simon,
Speaker 1: as if the flat notes could drown out what was missing?
Speaker 1: When I tried to talk about clients or shared plans,
Speaker 1: he looped every answer back to his art crowd. Did
Speaker 1: you know Harper's working on a new mural in Eastside?
Speaker 1: A man do's flying in a critic for the exhibit?
Speaker 1: Next month, THEO wants me to help set up a workshop.
Speaker 1: I let myself get swept along. Maybe it was easier
Speaker 1: to be agreeable if I questioned every story. What would
Speaker 1: be left distrust was exhausting, especially in a house built
Speaker 1: for transparency. But that tired, flickering part of my intuition
Speaker 1: refused to sleep. In the quiet moments folding laundry, dropping
Speaker 1: off the dry, cleaning, organizing grocery lists. I started to
Speaker 1: count the absences instead of the presences. I tracked Chris's
Speaker 1: explanations against receipts, against what THEO and Zara happened to say. Slowly,
Speaker 1: patterns emerged, not always proof, but enough to keep the
Speaker 1: anxiety alive. Late that month, the mirror door charge came
Speaker 1: back into focus. Sitting on the couch with THEO during
Speaker 1: a brunch after Michael's birthday, he casually let slip that
Speaker 1: Chris hadn't crashed at his place that Thursday. He stammered,
Speaker 1: fidgeting with his coffee mug, before saying, I think maybe
Speaker 1: he just crashed at a hotel. All done it, work
Speaker 1: gets crazy. He wouldn't meet my eyes. There's a moment
Speaker 1: when suspicion tips from background ache to foreground migrin that
Speaker 1: no amount of reassurance can dull I began searching subtly,
Speaker 1: nervously for corroboration. Asked Michael about the group. He was noncommittal.
Speaker 1: Chris is happy, art makes him good company, Let him
Speaker 1: have it. Zara clammed up. Every interaction became suspect. I
Speaker 1: found myself watching for tells in Chris's body language, the
Speaker 1: hitch in his stories, the way he never quite answered
Speaker 1: which artist he was helping, when or why. The worst
Speaker 1: part wasn't fear of betrayal. It was the gradual, crushing
Speaker 1: certainty that I'd become a version of myself. I barely
Speaker 1: recognized a detective, an eavesdropper, a woman triangulating receipts and
Speaker 1: bar schedules as if I were fact checking a client invioice.
Speaker 1: I missed us, missed ease, missed the days when Chris
Speaker 1: leaned his head on my shoulder and muttered, you're my
Speaker 1: favorite weird person. Now he was always turned away toward
Speaker 1: a group that looked at him differently, that maybe needed
Speaker 1: him in ways I no longer could. That ache, the
Speaker 1: one that comes from wanting what you already own, threatened
Speaker 1: to drown out every rational thought. One night, alone in
Speaker 1: my studio, I scrolled deep into his social media trail,
Speaker 1: not an act of trust, but of anxious compulsion. Photos
Speaker 1: tagged by Amanda, by Harper, by other people whose names
Speaker 1: meant little to me. The art group blurred into a
Speaker 1: single mass of wild hair, bright clothes, easy camaraderie. Chris
Speaker 1: looked proud, loose, attached to a circle whose center I
Speaker 1: could not see. In nearly every picture, Harper was there,
Speaker 1: sometimes beside him, sometimes just in the background, always magnetic.
Speaker 1: I went to bed, determined not to mention it, not
Speaker 1: to blow defensiveness into full fledged hostility. Laying awake, I
Speaker 1: traced the sealing patterns, wondering how two people could sleep
Speaker 1: beside each other and still feel so far away. But
Speaker 1: one detail kept gnawing at me, the way Chris's phone
Speaker 1: always migrated with him, even on bathroom trips. How his texts,
Speaker 1: once full of silly you or song recommendations were now
Speaker 1: pure schedule. When he fell asleep at last, shallow breathing,
Speaker 1: with his back to me, I reached for answers. I
Speaker 1: opened our shared iPad, ostensibly for the New York Times
Speaker 1: games but sometimes a back up work device, and noticed
Speaker 1: his calendar app flagged a new trip art group Marfa.
Speaker 1: It was an event set for late April, two nights.
Speaker 1: I checked our account, two Amtrak trained tickets paid from
Speaker 1: our joint money listed as art classes. I snapped the
Speaker 1: device shut, heart pounding. I wanted to ask, who's going
Speaker 1: to Marfa? When were you going to mention it? Instead?
Speaker 1: I said nothing. Maybe on some level I was afraid
Speaker 1: of knowing the answer. Days spilled into each other. Chris
Speaker 1: had bouts of remorseful attention, a gift card here, a
Speaker 1: gentle back rub there. But I could feel the gap widening.
Speaker 1: Our texts became even more spare. Home soon eat water plants.
Speaker 1: Zara caught me crying quietly over an espresso at our
Speaker 1: favorite cafe on South Lamar. I confessed some of my suspicions,
Speaker 1: not all, but enough for her to look genuinely unsettled.
Speaker 1: She squeezed my hand, but returned over and over to
Speaker 1: the same line. Careers are hard, you guys are strong.
Speaker 1: Try to focus on what you love together. I tried,
Speaker 1: but every gesture Chris made toward me now felt haunted
Speaker 1: by its apparent effortfulness. Every absent smile a shadow cast
Speaker 1: by something I couldn't see. Then the kicker. A second
Speaker 1: hotel charged, this one smaller marked as bar gallery event.
Speaker 1: When I asked, Chris, more wounded than accusing, he said
Speaker 1: it was Amander's guest, not mine, big out of towner.
Speaker 1: I was just helping them settle in. His tone was
Speaker 1: defensive but resigned. Lala, is everything okay? You seem tense.
Speaker 1: I wanted to yell you keep leaving, or tell me
Speaker 1: who you really are when I'm not looking. Instead, I shrugged,
Speaker 1: tried to laugh it off. I felt fragile, stretched so
Speaker 1: taut between denial and dread, that any movement might break me.
Speaker 1: A few nights later, Chris fetched his overnight bag, claiming
Speaker 1: he needed to crash at THEOS again after an epic
Speaker 1: code emergency. I played a long lips numb from hurt.
Speaker 1: After he left, I spent the evening alone looking for
Speaker 1: missing pieces, reviewing receipts, cross referencing dates. The evidence was
Speaker 1: all circumstantial, nothing that would hold up in a court
Speaker 1: or even in dinner club gossip. But it stacked up
Speaker 1: until my own story buckled under the weight. Late at night,
Speaker 1: I resolved to morrow I'd go to the next gallery
Speaker 1: opening alone if I had to. I wanted to see
Speaker 1: the shape of the GRI group, to see who orbited whom,
Speaker 1: and whether I was being paranoid or simply awake. That Friday,
Speaker 1: the gallery buzzed with energy, strings of lights, spilled wine,
Speaker 1: Harper spinning in the center as the world spun with her.
Speaker 1: Chris was there, but on the edge of the scene,
Speaker 1: bumming cigarettes, laughing too hard at someone's joke. He looked
Speaker 1: through me, not at me when I arrived. In fact,
Speaker 1: I saw no tension between him and Harper at all.
Speaker 1: If anything, she looked past him, caught up in the swirl.
Speaker 1: I had half a mind to leave when Amanda waved
Speaker 1: me over ernest. As always, she said nothing of late
Speaker 1: night in stalls. Nothing pointed at all in that crowded moment.
Speaker 1: I worried I had invented everything, the art group, the wedge,
Speaker 1: the whole edifice of anxiety. Maybe we were simply two
Speaker 1: people grown apart by work and small betrayals of absence,
Speaker 1: not some secret affair. Maybe Chris was just lonely and
Speaker 1: I'd failed to see it. I drifted home alone, determined
Speaker 1: to let the matter drop, or at LEAs least hide
Speaker 1: it until I could make sense of my own feelings.
Speaker 1: Chris came home late, offered to order Rahmen, made soft
Speaker 1: apologies for tension. He couldn't articulate. Things are just off,
Speaker 1: he said, I'm tired. In that moment, I believed him.
Speaker 1: That lasted a week. The next Saturday, after I'd convinced
Speaker 1: myself things were returning to center, after we'd actually made
Speaker 1: love for the first time in two weeks, after Chris
Speaker 1: made sourdough as an apology for something neither of us
Speaker 1: could name, a text flashed on his phone while he showered.
Speaker 1: I saw it, not by snooping, but by chance. Harper's name, bold,
Speaker 1: grinning at me as if to say, you already knew
Speaker 1: last night was perfect. Can't wait to see you again.
Speaker 1: The phone locked itself within seconds. I stood, breath working
Speaker 1: in my throat like a stone. I sat on the
Speaker 1: closed toilet lid, hands trembling. The trust I've been holding
Speaker 1: together with quiet resolve and plausible deniability. The last months
Speaker 1: of selective blindness fell apart all at once. I heard
Speaker 1: the shower shut off, Chris humming to himself he hadn't
Speaker 1: seen the message. In that moment, I knew I couldn't
Speaker 1: ignore the shape of the narrative any longer. The evidence,
Speaker 1: scattered and deniable for so long, was now a message
Speaker 1: glowing in my face, an admission sent casually without fear
Speaker 1: of being caught. I wanted to scream, to demand truth,
Speaker 1: to hurl accusations, but instead I sat frozen as steam
Speaker 1: gathered on the mirror and the laughter of the art
Speaker 1: group echoed somewhere far away. My mind started assembling questions
Speaker 1: I wasn't sure I wanted answers to. I closed the
Speaker 1: bathroom door behind me as quietly as I could, trying
Speaker 1: to keep my breathing inaudible. Half out of shame for
Speaker 1: having glimpsed that unread message, half out of instinct. I
Speaker 1: pulled my legs beneath me on the linen covered bench
Speaker 1: just outside our bedroom. Steam curled beneath the bathroom threshold.
Speaker 1: Chris's voice off key floated with the water's hum ain't
Speaker 1: no sunshine when she's gone for a minute. It felt
Speaker 1: like I was listening to a stranger in some one
Speaker 1: else's house. My hands still shook. I tried, tried so
Speaker 1: hard to talk myself down. I hadn't seen the whole
Speaker 1: thread I could imagine if I really wanted that. Maybe
Speaker 1: I'd missed some context. Maybe last night was perfect, meant
Speaker 1: the group gathering. Maybe it was just exuberance, the kind
Speaker 1: Harper radiated in all things given too easily. But there
Speaker 1: was something too intimate in her phrasing, not what a
Speaker 1: great night, but can't wait to see you again. I
Speaker 1: flipped the lights off in the hallway so Chris wouldn't
Speaker 1: see the brightness beneath the door and ask why I
Speaker 1: sat out here marinating in suspicion. He emerged moments later
Speaker 1: in sweat pants and smelled of my grapefruit shampoo. He
Speaker 1: ruffled his hair, gave me a loose smile one of
Speaker 1: the old ones tender around the corners, and padded toward
Speaker 1: the kitchen with his phone cradled unconsciously to his chest.
Speaker 1: I followed, working my face into an approximation of normal.
Speaker 1: I'm on coffee duty, he announced, which mugg Are you
Speaker 1: feeling the silly possum or the bamboo one? Whatever's clean,
Speaker 1: I said, voice flat, hoping he'd notice, but also dreading
Speaker 1: it if he did. He paused midpaw you okay, yeah,
Speaker 1: just didn't sleep much, I lied. He brought over two mugs,
Speaker 1: nudging mine closer. For a moment, it almost seemed possible,
Speaker 1: this tableau of morning routine, our kitchen painted with sunrise,
Speaker 1: the two of us moving in step memory on muscle.
Speaker 1: I wished desperately that I could slip back into the
Speaker 1: glide of habit and let the message go unregistered. But
Speaker 1: smell has memory, and so does suspicion. Every little thing
Speaker 1: became too bright, too loud. The phone he placed, screened
Speaker 1: down by the stove, his glances at it as it
Speaker 1: buzzed faintly underneath Big day at the gallery, I said,
Speaker 1: trying to sound off handed. Pouring too much soy milk
Speaker 1: into my coffee. He looked up, blinking, Oh no, not really, Amanda,
Speaker 1: just wants help with moving some stuff. THEO might drop
Speaker 1: by for drinks later. You want to come. It sounded
Speaker 1: both genuine and wrong at the same time. In the
Speaker 1: rearview of my mind, I couldn't recall him ever inviting
Speaker 1: me along with such blandness before. I wanted to press
Speaker 1: again about Harper about last night, but my tongue felt
Speaker 1: glued to the roof of my mouth, the words too
Speaker 1: big and ugly for a Saturday morning. All I said
Speaker 1: was maybe I have a lot I should get done
Speaker 1: for the Thompson staging. The conversation fizzled, and he set
Speaker 1: about making eggs, humming nothing in particular. It would have
Speaker 1: been so easy, I realized, to let everything recede back
Speaker 1: into the manageable static of unresolved questions, to preserve the piece,
Speaker 1: if only for a few more hours, a few more
Speaker 1: shared meals that urge to keep things surface level to
Speaker 1: avoid breaking. Whatever was left was strong, too strong. Maybe Instead,
Speaker 1: I cleaned the kitchen at a furious pace after breakfast,
Speaker 1: stacking pans too loudly, letting glassware clink in ways that
Speaker 1: would have made Chris WinCE under other circumstances. He kept
Speaker 1: glancing at his phone, thumbing it on and off whenever
Speaker 1: he thought I wasn't looking. By eleven, he was out
Speaker 1: the door, apparently called in for a quick brainstorm with
Speaker 1: a Mander and Harper before the others show up. I
Speaker 1: said nothing, just waved. He kissed my cheek. His lips
Speaker 1: felt absent, like a memory of touch. The house closed
Speaker 1: in on itself as he left, every plant and length
Speaker 1: of hardwood reflecting the echo of his retreating steps. I
Speaker 1: stared at the front door after it closed, unmoving until
Speaker 1: the sunlight shifted enough for my toes to go cold.
Speaker 1: I let myself shatter a little, standing in the kitchen
Speaker 1: with SuDS on my hands, breathing in short, shallow gasps.
Speaker 1: I tried to work, failed every time my phone buzzed
Speaker 1: client Zara a back ordered hardware notification. I imagined Harper's
Speaker 1: name lighting up somewhere else, apologies and endearments flowing in
Speaker 1: threads I could never see, minutes scraped by the distance
Speaker 1: between us. Was now an organism inside the house, living, breathing,
Speaker 1: impossible to clean away with lemon spray or laundry cycles.
Speaker 1: I should have told someone. I should have called Zara,
Speaker 1: maybe Michael, maybe even THEO if I thought I could
Speaker 1: trust him to be objective. But every approach stalled out
Speaker 1: in uncertainty. What would I say? I saw one text,
Speaker 1: I have nothing but a flash of a message and
Speaker 1: bad gut feelings. Would they reassure me again, tell me
Speaker 1: I was two in my own head, or worse, would
Speaker 1: I sound unhinged? Instead, for reasons I couldn't explain even
Speaker 1: to myself, I opened the old knot of my anxiety
Speaker 1: and started digging for answers buried in our clutter. Not
Speaker 1: digital clues, but the more physical kind, the ones you
Speaker 1: find when a household unravels. First, the coat closet, Chris's
Speaker 1: messenger bag, his battered art night sneakers, smelling faintly of
Speaker 1: paint and cut grass. The bag was light, nearly empty,
Speaker 1: except for a handful of half used pens and a
Speaker 1: folded flier for an upcoming show at the gallery. Harper's
Speaker 1: name was printed twice in large block letters, once for
Speaker 1: a mural unveiling, again for an artist's talk the following weekend.
Speaker 1: I realized suddenly that he'd never mentioned the talk, though
Speaker 1: he'd texted he'd be working late for Amanda that night.
Speaker 1: The detail stuck, adding another invisible line to a web
Speaker 1: only I seemed to see. I tried, shamefaced to check
Speaker 1: his work computer in the office. Locked. Of course, Chris
Speaker 1: wasn't technically secretive. His passwords were the same as always,
Speaker 1: but lately more of his devices were signed out when
Speaker 1: I went to use them, the auto log in habits
Speaker 1: of the past replaced by deliberate log outs. His desk
Speaker 1: usually cluttered, but Benign held one new item, a sketch book,
Speaker 1: not in his usual style, its edges dusted with pale
Speaker 1: streaks of charcoal. I thumbed carefully through it, heart pounding,
Speaker 1: not for proof of infidelity, but in hope of some answer,
Speaker 1: any answer inside fast spidery drawings, figure studies. Hands held
Speaker 1: together a face that reminded me unmistakably of Harper wild curls.
Speaker 1: The brow arched just so, lips in perpetual motion. I
Speaker 1: sat on the edge of the bed with the sketch
Speaker 1: book in my lap, pulse thudding in my ears. Maybe
Speaker 1: it was an innocent practice. Chris was always supportive of
Speaker 1: my own creativity, even joined some of Zara's figure drawing
Speaker 1: classes in our early years together. But these sketches felt private, reverential.
Speaker 1: My mouth felt dry and metallic. I sat there for
Speaker 1: several minutes, fingers pressed into the paper, as if I
Speaker 1: could ring an answer out of graphite. The urge to
Speaker 1: find more mounted a wave of wanting kneading, hating myself
Speaker 1: for kneading. All at the same time. I opened the
Speaker 1: file drawer where we kept joint receipts, bills, warranties. I
Speaker 1: had never until now felt so much like a thief
Speaker 1: inside my own life. There were weekly eight m withdrawals
Speaker 1: I didn't recognize, always at the same studio supply store
Speaker 1: I'd only visited twice in as many years. Chris's handwriting
Speaker 1: always a loopy, careful scrawl, annotated art class supplies, once
Speaker 1: gallery drinks, Harper, Another evening ride Marfa Marfa, the trip
Speaker 1: I'd never heard about, the one I'd found on the calendar.
Speaker 1: That word made something clang in my head. I took
Speaker 1: a photo of the note on my phone, tucking the
Speaker 1: slip back in precisely as I'd found it. My heart
Speaker 1: hammered in strange staccato. By mid afternoon, the house felt
Speaker 1: too tight. I called Zara, asked her to meet for coffee,
Speaker 1: no pretense, just my voice clipped and flat. She picked
Speaker 1: up on the third ring. Airy as always heard from
Speaker 1: the missing husband, she teased. The joke hit me sideways,
Speaker 1: not really, can we meet? Ay? I faltered. She must
Speaker 1: have sensed something in my tone. You sound weirdly. What's
Speaker 1: going on? I swallowed the words crowding in my throat.
Speaker 1: Just a lot, please. We met half an hour later
Speaker 1: at Blocher's, the place with mismatched mugs and chairs cobbled
Speaker 1: together from half a dozen garage sails. Zara waved from
Speaker 1: a back booth, eyebrows already knitted in concern. Okay, start talking,
Speaker 1: she said, side stepping her usual introductions. I hesitated. I think,
Speaker 1: I mean, I don't have proof, but Chris there's something off.
Speaker 1: The art group, the hotel receipts, his weird new friends,
Speaker 1: and now Harper. She leaned forward, the steam from her
Speaker 1: drink curling up. Are you sure it's not just stress?
Speaker 1: Didn't you say you've both been in overdrive lately? I
Speaker 1: used to think that, but my voice caught. This morning,
Speaker 1: Harper texted him something about last night being perfect. She
Speaker 1: can't wait to see him again. Zara's eyes widened. Did
Speaker 1: you read the whole conversation? No, just the notification. But
Speaker 1: there's more cash with drawers, trips I don't know about,
Speaker 1: and his sketch book. There are drawings of her, like
Speaker 1: intimate portraits, and he never talks about their group with me,
Speaker 1: he just says it's casual. But now every time I ask,
Speaker 1: I get dodged. Zara pressed her palm against her forehead. Shit.
Speaker 1: The cursing startled me. Zara, queen of gentle deflections, never
Speaker 1: swore unless she was truly rattled. It could be nothing,
Speaker 1: she offered, but her tone had lo lost its buoyancy.
Speaker 1: Or maybe just innocent flirtation. Chris can be awkward, you
Speaker 1: know how he loves attention. Innocent flirtation doesn't usually come
Speaker 1: with hidden trips, I said quietly. And now there's MafA too.
Speaker 1: He's planning to go with her. I think he hasn't
Speaker 1: told me. Zara worried the rim of her mug with
Speaker 1: a chipped fingernail. Have you talked to him directly about
Speaker 1: your gut feelings? Sort of? He gives me half answers,
Speaker 1: makes it about his stress, the need for space, or
Speaker 1: acts like I'm being controlling? Well are you? She said
Speaker 1: it softly, almost fearfully. I drew back, as if slapped.
Speaker 1: I'm only keeping track of the days he disappears because
Speaker 1: I can't not. I never used to be like this,
Speaker 1: I never cared. She backpedaled, apologetic, Sorry, I'm just I
Speaker 1: don't want to decide for you. People get weird, you know.
Speaker 1: Maybe it's his mid thirties crisis. I mumbled something on committal,
Speaker 1: Suddenly tired, we talked in circles, neither of us certain
Speaker 1: where to put the blame. Finally, she rested her hand
Speaker 1: over mine and squeezed hard. You deserve answers lee either way.
Speaker 1: That night, I went home to another dark house. Chris
Speaker 1: had texted working late. Wait up, I didn't reply. I
Speaker 1: chewed through the evening, pacing between our bedroom and the
Speaker 1: living room, weighing confrontation against silence, neither one promising relief. Eventually,
Speaker 1: I sat with a glass of orange wine, flipping through
Speaker 1: Chris's old texts to me, ones filled with jokes, book recommendations,
Speaker 1: things he'd noticed only I would love. In the last
Speaker 1: dozen exchanges, we'd barely referenced anything more emotional than groceries
Speaker 1: or errands. I finished my drink and put the glass
Speaker 1: in the sink, the small, sharp sound echoing in the
Speaker 1: empty kitchen. At midnight, Chris returned home, His keys fumbled
Speaker 1: at the lock. He looked surprised to see me awake,
Speaker 1: as if he'd half hoped to sneak in undetected. He
Speaker 1: tried for small talk. Hey, you're up. Couldn't sleep, I
Speaker 1: answered quietly. Long day. He hovered near the threshold uncertainty
Speaker 1: in every line of his body. Want to watch something?
Speaker 1: I almost laughed, No, I need to get up early.
Speaker 1: Our marital choreography had become an exercise in avoidance. We
Speaker 1: both retreated to neutral corners of the bed, the width
Speaker 1: between us an entire continent. Next day, I called THEO
Speaker 1: my voice steadier than I felt brunch at Sour Duck.
Speaker 1: He agreed, and we met on the patio, sunlight flaring
Speaker 1: off galvanized table tops. After small talk, I turned the conversation.
Speaker 1: Is Chris o kay? I asked. He's barely sleeping, always gone.
Speaker 1: He says, you guys are working together, But Leo glanced away.
Speaker 1: He's YEA, I guess so. I mean work is work.
Speaker 1: You know he's been pulling extra hours. Does he talk
Speaker 1: to you about the art group? Theo's face flickered with gilt,
Speaker 1: then blankness. Not really. He likes having a new crowd,
Speaker 1: I think gets him out of his head. Amanda's crew
Speaker 1: is intense, lot of late nights. I keep telling him
Speaker 1: he's too old for these shenanigans. Did he stay over
Speaker 1: last Thursday? When he said he did, he flinched. He
Speaker 1: crashed here for a while, left after midnight, said he
Speaker 1: couldn't sleep, went for a drive. I don't know what
Speaker 1: he did after. I'm sorry, Leylah. He asked me not
Speaker 1: to get in the middle. I blinked hard, trying not
Speaker 1: to show how much that hurt. O k no worries,
Speaker 1: but THEO seemed troubled, like some one bound by half truths.
Speaker 1: We finished brunch in tense silence that afternoon, with Chris
Speaker 1: out yet again, I made up my mind. I needed
Speaker 1: more than rumors and feelings. I needed the story as
Speaker 1: it lived, not as I imagined it. I locked our
Speaker 1: bedroom door, powered up our shared iPad, an innocuous slab
Speaker 1: mostly used for recipes and travel bookings, not secrets. Chris
Speaker 1: logged into his apps so often here I knew the
Speaker 1: pass could by heart. His signal app was there, a
Speaker 1: recent download, password protected, but the notifications were on Harper's name,
Speaker 1: bright and frequent, like a persistent alarm. My hands shook
Speaker 1: as I navigated to his EMIL, rarely used but not
Speaker 1: locked down. Most messages were work gallery spam, dinner invites
Speaker 1: lost in the shuffle, then at the bottom a reservation
Speaker 1: confirmation miro d'Or hotel, thank you for booking one king
Speaker 1: bed two guests. The check in and check out perfectly
Speaker 1: matched the week end I'd spent alone wondering if I
Speaker 1: was losing my mind. There it was not just absence,
Speaker 1: not just suspicion, but a quantitative, documented truth. I sat there,
Speaker 1: my skin hot and prickling, reading and rereading the lines,
Speaker 1: trying to convince some part of myself that there might
Speaker 1: still be an explanation, that he'd booked a room for
Speaker 1: a stranded friend, or given a booking away, or stayed
Speaker 1: with someone else, that anything else could be true except
Speaker 1: the most obvious. But the email went on complimentary breakfast
Speaker 1: for two, champagne on ice in room. I closed my
Speaker 1: eyes and felt the room sway. The fact of it,
Speaker 1: mundane logistical typed out in customer service fonts and polite pleasantries,
Speaker 1: was so banal it twisted my stomach. There was no
Speaker 1: artistry and infidelity, only bureaucracy. For a while, I just
Speaker 1: sat there, cold, the sharpness in my chest giving way
Speaker 1: to a numb hush. It was a long time before
Speaker 1: I could even close the device. That day, Chris came
Speaker 1: home to find me in the kitchen, music playing, the
Speaker 1: lights all on bright. I smiled wide. He asked, what's up, cautious,
Speaker 1: sensing the charge in the air. I shrugged, Just cleaning,
Speaker 1: just living. Anything happened at the gallery. He paused for
Speaker 1: one beat, then another. Not much, just more set up.
Speaker 1: Harper's working on a piece for the show. So I
Speaker 1: helped stretch canvas. No drama, I smiled, and, for reasons
Speaker 1: I didn't fully understand, let the lie pass. Later, alone
Speaker 1: in our bed, I let myself cry, not because I
Speaker 1: found proof, but because its revelation changed nothing. I was
Speaker 1: still waiting, still considering if I could even call what
Speaker 1: I'd found evidence or just exhaustion taking its toll. That night,
Speaker 1: I added up the absences, the silences, the half truths,
Speaker 1: the parting glances that never found my eyes. My heart ached,
Speaker 1: but some stubborn parts still clung to hope that I
Speaker 1: wake to find I'd imagined all of it a fever
Speaker 1: dream brought on by too many wine fuel design nights,
Speaker 1: the paranoia of a tired woman more in love with
Speaker 1: her idea of marriage than with the messy reality of
Speaker 1: a partner who might one day leave. Sleep when it
Speaker 1: came was shallow in the dim gray of dawn. I
Speaker 1: woke to the sound of Chris's shoes at the door,
Speaker 1: his return from somewhere I no longer dared to guess.
Speaker 1: He sat on the edge of the mattress, touching my
Speaker 1: ankle lightly. I pretended not to notice, feigning deeper sleep,
Speaker 1: my body tense with the effort. I wondered beneath the
Speaker 1: drone of the air conditioner whether it would be easier
Speaker 1: to keep pretending, or whether the next time I saw
Speaker 1: Harper's name light up a screen, I'd find the courage
Speaker 1: to finally ask the question, whose answer was already rearranging
Speaker 1: the furniture of my soul. I felt almost weightless in
Speaker 1: my own skin, as if the shape of the morning
Speaker 1: had re arranged my insides. I didn't move for a
Speaker 1: long minute after Chris's hand withdrew from my ankle, still
Speaker 1: keeping my eyes shut, as if maybe I could away
Speaker 1: the knowledge, erased the geographies his absence had carved between us.
Speaker 1: He retreated wordlessly down the hall. I listened to the
Speaker 1: soft thud of his feet and the scrape of a
Speaker 1: drawer opening for socks. There was no pretending now, not really.
Speaker 1: The text, the receipts, the sketch book, the coded language
Speaker 1: around art class supplies, and the second name printed alongside
Speaker 1: his own on whatever reservation had once felt like a
Speaker 1: harmless detail in our whirring schedule. They all pressed in,
Speaker 1: crowding out every familiar comfort. I was no longer just
Speaker 1: gathering evidence for certainty. I was living inside the ache
Speaker 1: of it. I wondered if he could feel it too,
Speaker 1: or if the ease with which he moved through this
Speaker 1: morning signaled just how practiced the deception had become. He
Speaker 1: hadn't noticed any shift, or maybe he'd stopped watching for them.
Speaker 1: I rose finally and padded into the bathroom, shutting the
Speaker 1: door behind me. With the exhaust fan humming overhead, I
Speaker 1: pressed my forehead to the cool tile. I could still
Speaker 1: see Harper's words superimposed over the stream of that text.
Speaker 1: Last night was perfect. Can't wait to see you again? Simple,
Speaker 1: unremarkable in its set up, devastating in its implication. Downstairs,
Speaker 1: Chris banged a plate deliberately or not. I couldn't tell
Speaker 1: the normal cadence of domestic sound plates, spoons, errant laughter
Speaker 1: tucked into the radio's low volume. He called up coffee's ready,
Speaker 1: like nothing was amiss, like routine would solve the gnaw
Speaker 1: growing between us. I splashed cold water on my face,
Speaker 1: dobed on concealer for the undarey circles that seemed to
Speaker 1: have become permanent. When I got to the kitchen, Chris
Speaker 1: already had his bag slung over his shoulder, keys twisting
Speaker 1: in his hand, heading out. My voice was steady, if thin. Yea.
Speaker 1: Amanda called something about the new mural in stall getting delayed.
Speaker 1: I'll be back before dinner. Want me to pick up anything.
Speaker 1: I shook my head for a fleeting second. I considered
Speaker 1: blurting out everything, showing my hand, putting the evidence on
Speaker 1: the table. I couldn't do it, not in this soft,
Speaker 1: bright morning, not when I wasn't sure if I wanted
Speaker 1: to dismantle the last fragile structure of us. Chris was
Speaker 1: already at the door, smiling back, waiting for my answer.
Speaker 1: Drive safe, I finally said. He held my gaze a
Speaker 1: half second too long, then left, slipping into the bright
Speaker 1: spring air that seemed to rebuke every secret. The quiet
Speaker 1: after the door clicked shut was enormous. I dropped into
Speaker 1: his usual kitchen chair, arms crossed, eyes straying to the
Speaker 1: stray mug, his half eaten toast. Part of me wanted
Speaker 1: to smash the kitchen apart, to scream at the unfairness
Speaker 1: of such calm hiding such ruin. Instead, I exhaled into
Speaker 1: the hush. My hands wanted to move to tidy, to
Speaker 1: impose order where there was now only scatter. I wiped
Speaker 1: the counter, I emptied the dish washer. I re filled
Speaker 1: the plant's saucers. All the while my mind thrummed with
Speaker 1: the certainty that to day could not would not pass
Speaker 1: like any other. If I let it, if I swept
Speaker 1: this back under the rug, I would never come back
Speaker 1: from it. I realized viscerally that I'd reached the edge
Speaker 1: of what I could contain. As I stood, hands braced
Speaker 1: on the sink's lip, sunlight slanting through the leaves of
Speaker 1: the snake plant Chris had rescued last year, I knew
Speaker 1: this was the last day things could stay hidden. It
Speaker 1: was time. By late morning, the apartment had become intolerable,
Speaker 1: a museum of half truths and haunted objects. I took
Speaker 1: my own bag, checked the time, and walked out into
Speaker 1: the city heat, unsure of where to go, but certain
Speaker 1: that sitting still was impossible. I texted Zara from the
Speaker 1: curb you home? She replied within seconds, yap latte emergency
Speaker 1: or real one. The difference between the two seemed trivial now.
Speaker 1: I walked every step little looser, as if movement might
Speaker 1: keep everything from collapsing. The city vibrated as usual, kids
Speaker 1: on scooters, tourists photographing murals, buses hissing past, none of
Speaker 1: them knowing a thing about this small, private disaster at
Speaker 1: Zara's door. My nerves nearly broke. She opened within moments,
Speaker 1: bathrobe and all, sensing the gravity, immediately laylah. What happened?
Speaker 1: I stepped inside, collapsed onto the cordroy sofa that always
Speaker 1: smelled faintly of vanilla candles and old books. I looked
Speaker 1: at her, swallowing back a grief that wanted to emerge
Speaker 1: as anger, confession, maybe even laughter at the absurdity of
Speaker 1: it all. He's cheating, I said, no flourish, no doubt
Speaker 1: left in the words Chris with Harper. She didn't perform surprise.
Speaker 1: Her hand just pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with
Speaker 1: both shock and a creeping resignation. Shit Layla, are you sure?
Speaker 1: I nodded. My voice was lower now, just above a whisper.
Speaker 1: I saw the texts, the hotel bookings, the Marfa trip.
Speaker 1: I went and found the receipts. Everything lines up. Zara
Speaker 1: sat hard, her knees grazing mine as she reached for
Speaker 1: my hands. I God, I'm so sorry, I thought, maybe,
Speaker 1: I hoped. She shook her head, words running out. Her
Speaker 1: reaction gave me my first clean anger in hours. You
Speaker 1: knew or you guessed. Why didn't you tell me? Tears
Speaker 1: sprang up in her eyes, real, unguarded. I didn't want
Speaker 1: it to be true, Lee, I thought it was just
Speaker 1: just him being reckless, needing space. I thought, if I
Speaker 1: kept it light, you both find your way back. I
Speaker 1: wanted to rage at her, to accuse her of complicity,
Speaker 1: but her remorse was brutal in its clarity. You deserve better,
Speaker 1: she said, voice cracking. I should have said more. It's over,
Speaker 1: I said, though it felt like the words belonged to
Speaker 1: some other world. I don't know what to do now.
Speaker 1: I can't in that house. I can't pretend. Zara squeezed
Speaker 1: my hands, her own shaking. You don't have to decide
Speaker 1: everything to day, stay here, whatever you need. We'll get
Speaker 1: through this. I wept then, in quiet, controlled release, No histrionics,
Speaker 1: just the sharp, ugly grief that comes from watching someone
Speaker 1: you love become a stranger. In daylight, Zara held me
Speaker 1: and let the silence fill up with its own truths.
Speaker 1: When the tears stopped, she fetched toast and coffee without asking.
Speaker 1: We sat in a delicate truce. The only rhythm between
Speaker 1: us the slow eating, her soft words, my dry eyed
Speaker 1: resolve clicking into place. Peace by peace. Hours passed, conversations
Speaker 1: starting and halting, awkward and honest in turns. My phone
Speaker 1: buzzed twice with messages from Chris. First routine, later a
Speaker 1: question running late dinner plans let me know. I stared
Speaker 1: at the words as if they were in a foreign script.
Speaker 1: I had nothing left for pretense. It was just a
Speaker 1: matter of timing now. By evening, with daylight ebbing and
Speaker 1: my throat scratched raw, I made my plan. Zara offered
Speaker 1: to drive me home. I declined I needed to face
Speaker 1: our house to put ends to facts. She packed a
Speaker 1: bag for me anyway, just in case. The air felt
Speaker 1: different when I walked back, the humidity of springs settling
Speaker 1: on everything the world, at once unfamiliar and too familiar.
Speaker 1: I let myself in, keys jangling unnaturally loud against the
Speaker 1: silence inside. Chris's shoes were by the mat, jacket tossed
Speaker 1: haphazardly over the back of the living room chair. The
Speaker 1: lights were on. I heard his laugh from somewhere down
Speaker 1: the hall, soft muted on some speakerphone with THEO or
Speaker 1: maybe Amanda. I set my things down quietly, pulse racing
Speaker 1: like a snare drum beat under my skin. Every step
Speaker 1: toward the confrontation felt studded, deliberate, the way architects demolish
Speaker 1: old structures, brick by necessary brick. I found Chris in
Speaker 1: the dining room, typing something on to his laptop, music
Speaker 1: playing at a low volume. He looked up, surprised to
Speaker 1: see me. Hey, early night. I walked in, not bothering
Speaker 1: with preamble, letting resolve animate my body. We need to talk,
Speaker 1: I said. He caught the seriousness immediately slid his laptop shut.
Speaker 1: I pulled out the receipts from my bag, laying them
Speaker 1: flat in front of him, the ones for the mirror door,
Speaker 1: for the supplies for the train tickets. I opened the iPad,
Speaker 1: with shaking hands, scrolled to the relevant texts, held the
Speaker 1: screen so he could see Harper's glowing confession. I watched
Speaker 1: as the details arranged themselves on his face, startlement, panic,
Speaker 1: the quick mask of confusion. For a moment, he didn't speak.
Speaker 1: The kitchen clock ticked over seven, too ordinary, too painfully
Speaker 1: at odds with what was happening between us. Chris leaned
Speaker 1: back in his chair, rubbing his eyes, than his forehead,
Speaker 1: then both hands through his hair. Layla, it's not it's
Speaker 1: not how I cut him off, voice trembling but forceful.
Speaker 1: Don't please. I need the truth. No more half answers,
Speaker 1: no more stories. Just say it. He swallowed hard, the
Speaker 1: way he did before an awkward conversation. They're just messages.
Speaker 1: Harper's a friend, that's all. Don't lie to me one
Speaker 1: more time, Chris, did you stay at the hotel with her?
Speaker 1: Are you going to Martha? His jaw set, and for
Speaker 1: a second I could almost see the rehearsed denial coming. Instead,
Speaker 1: what broke through was a strangled plea for understanding. I
Speaker 1: didn't mean for it to go this far. It wasn't planned.
Speaker 1: You always he stopped, fumbled for words. I was lonely Lee.
Speaker 1: I felt invisible. You worked so much, and she made
Speaker 1: me feel seen. I didn't want to hurt you. At
Speaker 1: this my own rage surfaced, brittle and raw. So you
Speaker 1: decided to lie, to rewrite our life in your off hours,
Speaker 1: to carve out another version of yourself and leave me
Speaker 1: in the empty shell. He flinched, but for once didn't
Speaker 1: turn away. The first time was just drinks. Then it happened.
Speaker 1: I never wanted to leave you, Layelah. I just wanted God,
Speaker 1: I don't know, some one to tell me I was
Speaker 1: interesting that I still mattered. I braced both hands on
Speaker 1: the edge of the table so hard the wood creaked.
Speaker 1: You mattered to me. You could have told me, but
Speaker 1: you shut the door. You locked me out so you
Speaker 1: could star in some one else's story. He wiped his eyes, roughly,
Speaker 1: the first tears I'd seen in months. I thought you
Speaker 1: d left me already. You were so busy, so successful,
Speaker 1: so untouchable. I wanted to escape being the guy who
Speaker 1: just waited up for you. All you had to do
Speaker 1: was say something to want me really in the mess,
Speaker 1: not just in the scripts we tell our friends. But
Speaker 1: you picked the easiest out. My voy was shaking each
Speaker 1: word an effort against the sob gathering in my throat.
Speaker 1: He stared at the floor, hands knotted in his lap.
Speaker 1: I know I fucked up. I'm so sorry. I'm so
Speaker 1: so sorry. Did you sleep with her? I asked, the
Speaker 1: last question, spoken quietly, as if anything more would wreck
Speaker 1: the room completely. He didn't answer at first, just let
Speaker 1: his breath come sharp and ragged. Finally he nodded, barely perceptible, Yeah,
Speaker 1: I did. It's been a few weeks. I'm sorry. The
Speaker 1: confession landed heavier than any hint or text or receipt.
Speaker 1: My legs nearly gave out, but I kept standing. His
Speaker 1: tears looked ugly, unfamiliar, some minor actor's version of grief.
Speaker 1: That was it, the tilting point, the unavoidable truth. Finally
Speaker 1: spoken aloud, a silence spun out. I realized I was
Speaker 1: breathing in shallow heaves, as if air could press the
Speaker 1: pain back down. I walked back from the table, arms
Speaker 1: crossed over my chest for warmth that wouldn't come. My voice,
Speaker 1: when it emerged, was strangely calm. We're done. I can't.
Speaker 1: I'm not doing this. I won't stay to what you
Speaker 1: try to justify why you chose some one else over
Speaker 1: the only thing we ever promised each other, honesty. Chris gulped,
Speaker 1: another shiver of remorse passing through him. I never wanted
Speaker 1: to lose you. It wasn't about her. It doesn't matter,
Speaker 1: I said, quieter. You lost me anyway. He wiped at
Speaker 1: his cheeks, but didn't come near For a long minute.
Speaker 1: I looked at him, searching for a trace of the
Speaker 1: man I'd built a home with. He looked so small
Speaker 1: at that table, hollowed out and afraid. I realized the
Speaker 1: pity strung almost as much as the betrayal. You don't
Speaker 1: have to go, he offered, voice raw. I'll leave for
Speaker 1: the night. You need space, take the house. I'll get
Speaker 1: my things when you're ready. I just shook my head.
Speaker 1: It's not about physical space, It's about not knowing who
Speaker 1: you are any more, he slumped, nodding, the last fight
Speaker 1: gone from him. In the crushing stillness, I picked up
Speaker 1: the evidence receipts, phone, iPad. I gathered what strings of
Speaker 1: myself were left. I'll stay with Zara tonight, I said,
Speaker 1: turning for the stairs. Chris didn't follow or call after me.
Speaker 1: He stared at his hands, like they were the only
Speaker 1: objects in the world he was accountable to. I moved
Speaker 1: through the bedroom, yanked a few clothes from drawers, filled
Speaker 1: a bag with essentials. In the bathroom, I splashed water
Speaker 1: on my face, blotted away the streaked mascare. Downstairs again,
Speaker 1: I paused just long enough for him to look up.
Speaker 1: His eyes searched mine, desperate, but I couldn't give him
Speaker 1: what he wanted, relief or forgiveness, or even hatred. I
Speaker 1: simply nodded, more out of habit than understanding. I'm sorry,
Speaker 1: he whispered. I wish I could take it back. I
Speaker 1: didn't reply. There was nothing left to say that wouldn't
Speaker 1: hollow me further. I walked outside, the last of the sun,
Speaker 1: catching the house number we'd painted together long ago. In
Speaker 1: a universe where trust wasn't just a word. We both failed.
Speaker 1: Everything felt suspended, my bag biting my shoulder, the tap
Speaker 1: of my shoes on the porch, the evening air too sharp.
Speaker 1: I texted Zara, I'm coming. I'll explain everything soon. I
Speaker 1: dropped Chris's spare house key in the mail box, a
Speaker 1: gesture equal parts courtesy and finality, and strode into the
Speaker 1: night toward my car toward the next hour I would
Speaker 1: have to survive. In the car, I gripped the wheel,
Speaker 1: teeth clenched until my jaw ached, fighting not to replay
Speaker 1: the conversation I just had. The familiar ache of tears
Speaker 1: cycled again. I blinked them back until only the rawness remained.
Speaker 1: Hands shaking, I checked my phone one last time. No
Speaker 1: new texts, no missed calls. The silence was surgical. I
Speaker 1: started the ignition. Minutes later. I parked outside Zara's, the
Speaker 1: glow of her porch light swimming through the windshield. I waited,
Speaker 1: staring at the illuminated pathway, at the string of succulence
Speaker 1: we planted in a burst of spring optimism last year.
Speaker 1: For a moment, I couldn't move, my body, petrified, as
Speaker 1: if shifting from the driver's seat would shatter the thin
Speaker 1: composure holding me together. Finally, I forced myself out, carrying
Speaker 1: my bag, phone and the slivid edges of what I
Speaker 1: used to be. Zara opened the door before I knocked.
Speaker 1: Her eyes widened at the red in mine. She took
Speaker 1: my bag, wrapped me in her arms, and led me
Speaker 1: inside without a word. The first thing I did was
Speaker 1: take off my shoes, standing in the hallway of her apartment,
Speaker 1: ankles bare on the worn runner. The place was quiet,
Speaker 1: slices of lamplight painting soft lines on the white wall.
Speaker 1: Zara retreated to the kitchen voice, gentle tea. I didn't
Speaker 1: trust myself to answer. I nodded and sat back Ramrod
Speaker 1: strait on the guest room bed, staring out the window
Speaker 1: at a city that seemed unchanged by all of this.
Speaker 1: With my bag at my feet, I emptied it, Jean's shirts,
Speaker 1: my laptop, the evidence folder. I gathered up my phone
Speaker 1: and with a shaking thumb, blocked both Chris and Harper
Speaker 1: from every place their names might reappear, Instagram texts, group chats,
Speaker 1: one by one, their ability to reach me evaporated. I
Speaker 1: scrolled for a second, stopped on a photo of Chris
Speaker 1: from last winter, face half shadowed, hat pulled down, laughing
Speaker 1: at something behind the lens. I stared at it for
Speaker 1: a long moment, searching for clues I'd missed meaning that
Speaker 1: might redeem any of it. Then, just as deliberately, I
Speaker 1: deleted the Dinner Club group chat in its entirety, a
Speaker 1: gesture small enough, unremarkable in its digital silence, but as
Speaker 1: decisive as anything I'd done. Zara returned a minute later,
Speaker 1: two mugs in hand, I sipped quietly, the rich will
Speaker 1: grounding me fragment by fragment, as the world on my
Speaker 1: phone shrank to just the two of us. After tea,
Speaker 1: I closed my laptop, set it aside, and pulled a
Speaker 1: blank notepad from my bag, something I'd packed without much thought.
Speaker 1: With the overhead lamp burning low, I hesitated for only
Speaker 1: a second before uncapping a pen and sketching out a
Speaker 1: rough design for a living room. Nothing specific, just lines
Speaker 1: and shadow and the shape of what might be possible
Speaker 1: with enough imagination. The motion was awkward at first, but
Speaker 1: soon my hand found its way, the familiar press and pull,
Speaker 1: settling my nerves in a rhythm I recognized from before
Speaker 1: all of this began. I sketched until my hand cramped,
Speaker 1: letting the loops and arcs chase away the night. The
Speaker 1: drawing wasn't much, bare bones, really, but it was mine,
Speaker 1: built again from disaster, a new floor plan staked out
Speaker 1: in pencil over the old. When exhaustion finally cut through
Speaker 1: the last of the adrenaline, I peeled off my clothes,
Speaker 1: crawled under the blanket, and lay there staring at the
Speaker 1: city lights until I didn't trust my eyes, until the
Speaker 1: first dull blue of morning softened the sharp edges of
Speaker 1: everything left behind. And that is the end. Thank you
Speaker 1: for listening, and I will see you in the next one.