Their old stories.
His hand touching hers.
Claire comparing him to me.
The first several nights, I told myself they probably were genuinely talking.
Then I would remember the swimsuit.
The hot tub.
The separate rooms.
Separate rooms, Claire had promised.
As though architecture prevented choices.
On day six, Ben asked me to go for a beer after work.
I almost declined.
Then accepted because I could not face the house.
We sat in a sports bar near the office.
He asked again:
"What's wrong?"
I told him.
Not everything.
Enough.
Ben put down his beer.
"She's where?"
"With her ex."
"For two weeks?"
"Yes."
"You agreed to that?"
"No."
He stared.
"But she went."
"Yes."
Ben was quiet.
Then said something that irritated me at the time.
"Why are you acting like you're waiting for permission to be angry?"
I looked at him.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"You're worried that if you call this what it looks like, you'll somehow become the jealous husband she said you were."
I said nothing.
Ben leaned back.
"Man, you can trust someone and still have boundaries."
I went home angry at him.
Mostly because he was right.
Day seven brought one message.
Long day. Emotional. I'll call tomorrow.
She did not.
On day eight, I called.
Voicemail.
She texted two hours later.
Sorry. Talking. Can we connect later?
Later never came.
Day nine, nothing.
Day ten, nothing.
That was when fear overtook anger.
Not fear that she had been hurt.
Though I worried about that too.
Fear that silence itself was information.
I called once.
Voicemail.
Sent:
Just tell me you're okay.
No response.
That night I slept three hours.
Day eleven.
Nothing.
Day twelve.
Nothing.
I checked social media even though I had promised myself I would not.
Claire had posted nothing.
Julian's account was private.
I searched his name anyway.
That was a humiliating twenty minutes.
Day thirteen, 4:18 p.m., my phone buzzed.
Coming home tomorrow. We should talk.
I read the message five times.
No apology for disappearing.
No explanation.
We should talk.
I replied:
What time?
6ish.
That was all.
Tuesday evening, 6:31, I heard Claire's car in the driveway.
Milo exploded.
He ran to the door whining, nails clicking against hardwood.
For him, fourteen days had no moral meaning.
His person had returned.
Claire opened the door.
She looked different.
Not dramatically.
Tanned.
Rested.
Her shoulders seemed lower.
She wore jeans and a cream sweater.
She smiled when she saw Milo and knelt.
"Oh my God, I missed you."
Milo climbed halfway into her lap.
I stood near the stairs.
Claire looked up.