"You wouldn't understand," she said. "You like predictability."
"I like having electricity," I answered.
Zoe laughed, but she glanced at Sarah first. It was such a small movement that I wouldn't have remembered it if later events hadn't sent me searching my memory for signs. Looking back can make ordinary gestures feel like clues in a mystery. I try not to pretend I knew more then than I actually did. What I knew was that the woman I loved was less interested in being home, and that I was trying harder and harder to make home a place she'd want to return to.
Six months before the final phone call, Sarah and two other friends organized a five-day trip to Las Vegas. They said they needed a break from work, something fun before another round of promotions and responsibilities made it impossible to get everyone together. Zoe brought it up while we were cooking dinner, standing at the counter cutting vegetables. She was smiling in that bright, anticipatory way I hadn't seen much lately. For a moment I felt relieved simply because she looked happy.
"It's just what I need," she said. "A few days with the girls, some shows, good restaurants. Just being somewhere different."
"Sounds fun," I told her. "Have you checked flights?"
She blinked. "You're not upset?"
"Why would I be upset?"
"Some guys get weird about Vegas."
I understood the city's reputation, but I wasn't going to tell my adult girlfriend where she could travel. Trust had to mean something beyond approving plans I liked. We discussed the budget, and I transferred some extra money to her account after she mentioned being worried about meals and transportation. I framed it as a contribution to her birthday celebration, which had been modest that year. She kissed my cheek and told me I was the best.
At the airport I carried her suitcase to the curb. She wore a light jacket over a bright outfit and kept checking that she'd packed the camera I bought her. We hugged, and she promised to send pictures. As she walked toward the terminal, she turned once and waved. I stood there longer than I needed to, watching the doors close behind her, completely certain the person coming home five days later would be the same person leaving.
The first pictures arrived that afternoon. Zoe and her friends were standing under a giant hotel sign, grinning at the camera while the desert sun made every color look sharper than it did at home. I sent a message telling her to have fun and drink water. She replied with a row of laughing emojis and a promise not to do anything too ridiculous. I went back to work, glad that she'd started the trip in a good mood.
For the next two days, I heard from her in pieces. There was a picture of an elaborate breakfast, a complaint about how expensive the hotel coffee was, and a short video from a rooftop pool where the wind nearly drowned out her voice. I sent her a photograph of our cat's favorite spot by the window, then remembered we didn't have a cat; it was the neighbor's orange cat that visited whenever someone left the balcony door open. She responded that she missed our accidental pet. Everything about those messages felt normal.