Then came the phone.
Sarah had always used her phone constantly.
That alone meant nothing.
What changed was the way she used it around me.
The screen began turning downward when I entered the room.
She changed her passcode.
She would laugh at messages, and if I asked what was funny, she would say, “Just work stuff.”
Once, while we were watching a movie, her phone vibrated.
She picked it up.
Her face changed instantly.
Not dramatically.
She smiled.
A private little smile.
I remember looking at it and feeling something cold move through my stomach.
“Who is it?”
She locked the screen.
“Nobody.”
“You smiled.”
“Am I not allowed to smile?”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“It’s Liam. He sent something about work.”
That was the first time I remember hearing Liam Davis’s name in a way that mattered.
Sarah had received a promotion about four months earlier and transferred into a new marketing division.
Liam was the department director.
Her boss.
He was thirty-four, recently separated, and apparently brilliant at everything.
At least according to Sarah.
During the first weeks, Liam appeared in conversation occasionally.
Then daily.
“Liam thinks our entire campaign structure is outdated.”
“Liam says most companies are terrified of aggressive growth.”
“Liam closed this unbelievable partnership in one meeting.”
“Liam spent three weeks in Bali last year.”
“Liam says people waste their twenties being too careful.”
At first, I listened.
Why wouldn’t I?
Sarah admired people easily when she entered a new environment. She always had.
But slowly, the stories became comparisons.
Not explicit comparisons.
Those would have been easier to identify.
Instead, they were disguised as observations.
“Liam says people our age should take bigger financial risks.”
“Interesting.”
“He thinks buying a suburban house too early traps people.”
“We’ve been talking about buying a suburban house.”
“I’m just telling you what he said.”
Another evening:
“Liam wants to build enough wealth that he can stop working by forty.”
“That sounds ambitious.”
“He says salary people think too small.”
“I have a salary.”
“Alex, everything isn’t about you.”
I started noticing the implication beneath the admiration.
Liam was bold.
I was safe.
Liam traveled spontaneously.
I planned vacations.
Liam invested aggressively.
I contributed to retirement accounts.
Liam ordered expensive bottles of wine without looking at the price.
I tracked wedding expenses in a spreadsheet.
For years, the qualities Sarah had praised had somehow become proof that I lacked imagination.
I did not understand then that people sometimes rewrite the person they are leaving so they can feel better about leaving them.
If I was dependable, then she was betraying a dependable man.
That looked ugly.
If I was boring, cautious, and insufficiently ambitious, then perhaps she was escaping.
That story was easier for her to live with.
The honeymoon argument was the first time Liam entered our wedding directly.
We had always planned to go to the Amalfi Coast.
Sarah had photographs saved.
She wanted a small hotel overlooking the water.
We had discussed restaurants, day trips, ferry routes, everything.
Then one night she said:
“I think we should do Bali.”
I looked up from my laptop.
“What happened to Italy?”
“Nothing. Bali just sounds better.”
“Since when?”
“Liam was there recently.”
There it was again.
I closed the laptop.
“What does Liam have to do with our honeymoon?”
“Nothing.”
“You just used him as the reason.”
“I said he told me about Bali.”
“You’ve wanted Italy for two years.”
“People can change their minds.”
“Of course.”