I studied her face. She looked frightened in a way I had not seen when she came to the first apartment door, as though her anger had finally run out of places to hide. I knew there was a risk in listening again, and I also knew I wanted the conversation finished. I told her she had five minutes, that I would not let her inside, and that I would end the conversation if she raised her voice or refused to leave.
She nodded rapidly. "Okay. That's fair."
For a few seconds she could not seem to organize her words. Then she said she had made the biggest mistake of her life and knew she could never undo it. She said she had been selfish, cruel, and careless with the only person who had consistently shown up for her. I let her speak, waiting to see whether the apology would remain an apology once she understood it would not change my answer.
"Every day I wake up and remember what I said," she told me. "I wish I could take it back. I wish I'd just come home that night and eaten dinner with you."
The mention of dinner made my chest tighten. I could see the chicken Parmesan on the counter, the candle burning lower than I had intended, and the blue light of my phone when I chose not to call her. Sarah went on speaking about how much she missed the apartment, my cooking, and the certainty that somebody would be there at the end of the day. I noticed how rarely she said she missed me apart from the things I did.
"What happened with Derek?" I asked when she paused.
She stared at the floor. "Nothing happened the way you think," she said. "I met him, yes. We had dinner. I liked the attention, but it didn't turn into anything serious. I didn't sleep with him."
I told her I was not asking for details to punish her. I wanted to know why she had chosen that particular night to tell me we were finished, knowing I would be home preparing dinner. She rubbed both hands over her face before looking at me again. "I wanted you to be jealous," she admitted. "I wanted you to fight for me."
I felt something inside me go still. It was not the revelation that I had been replaced; it was the revelation that she had expected me to compete for the right to remain in a relationship she had already treated as optional. I asked her whether she really believed telling somebody they were unwanted was a way to make them feel loved. She began crying and said she knew now how foolish it sounded.
"I thought you'd call," she said. "I thought you'd tell me not to go. I thought you'd get angry and we'd have one of those huge conversations, and afterward you'd hold me and everything would feel serious again."
"You wanted me to prove I cared by accepting something designed to hurt me," I said.
She nodded reluctantly. "I guess I did."
"That's not a test I could pass without losing myself."