Hope, however, is not the same as proof. One rainy Thursday, Vanessa asked to meet me at the house because a drain under the kitchen sink had begun leaking. I arrived after work with a wrench and a small replacement fitting. She had put a towel beneath the pipe and cleared the cabinet, and she stood in the doorway while I knelt on the floor.
"I could've called a plumber," she said.
"I know."
"I wanted to see you."
The simple admission nearly made me smile. "You could have asked."
"Would you have come?"
"Probably."
When I'd fixed the leak, she made coffee and asked if we could sit at the table. The ring wasn't there anymore, of course. She'd moved it to a small ceramic bowl on the shelf above the sink, the one where we'd once kept spare buttons and keys. She saw me glance at it.
"I haven't touched it much," she said. "I thought you'd want to decide what happens to it."
I nodded. The smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen, and for a few minutes we talked about ordinary things: her upcoming event, a problem at my job, the neighbor's dog that barked at delivery trucks. It was the kind of conversation I had missed more than I wanted to admit. Then her phone vibrated on the table, and I saw the name Adrian.
Vanessa turned the screen over almost immediately. It was a small movement, but the room seemed to change temperature. She looked at me, following my gaze, and her face fell.
"I should have told you we're still speaking about a project," she said.
"Are you still going out together?"
"No. Not like that."
"That's not an answer to the question I asked."
She swallowed. "I haven't been out with him since that night. He texts about work. That's all."
I wanted to believe her. I also remembered her saying nearly identical words in July, then calling my discomfort an accusation. I put my mug down gently.
"If we're going to try counseling, I need you to stop making me find out important things by accident," I said. "Not because I own your phone. Because I can't rebuild trust on partial answers."
"I know," she whispered.
"Then tell me whatever you haven't told me."
Her eyes went to the window. Rain traced pale lines across the dark glass. For a long time she didn't speak, and I knew before she opened her mouth that there was more.
"There was a kiss," she said.