That was all.
But her voice was different.
No birthday-table brightness.
No annoyance.
Raw.
“I’m here.”
“I didn't think you'd actually leave.”
I watched one moth hit the light.
Fall.
Rise.
Try again.
“That’s the problem, Laura.”
“What is?”
“You thought I'd never stop staying.”
Silence.
Then:
“I said it because I thought you'd laugh.”
“At what?”
“The toast.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“I don't know.”
“You do know.”
Her breathing changed.
“I was angry.”
“At me?”
“At everything.”
“That doesn't explain it.”
“I wanted a reaction.”
I said nothing.
Laura continued.
“I wanted you to fight for me.”
I almost ended the call.
Instead, I asked, “By telling eighteen people you'd found someone better?”
“I wanted to know whether anything could make you care enough to get angry.”
“I cared enough to build a life with you.”
“You never fight.”
“That is not the same as not caring.”
“I know that now.”
“Do you?”
Silence.
Then I asked the question neither of us had spoken plainly.
“Are you sleeping with Daniel?”
Laura inhaled.