Below, someone was walking a dog.
"I'll think about it."
It was a cowardly answer.
I knew immediately I wasn't going to do it.
But telling Linda no felt cruel.
After the call, I stared at her number.
Then blocked it too.
That one hurt.
Linda wasn't responsible.
But I knew how doors worked.
One message became a conversation.
One conversation became money.
Money became airport pickup.
Airport pickup became Claire crying in my apartment.
Suddenly I'd be back inside the relationship before I understood how I'd returned.
So I closed every door.
One week after the breakup, I started packing Claire's belongings.
Not throwing them away.
Packing them.
There was a strange archaeological quality to it.
Every object contained history.
A sweater she'd stolen from me two winters earlier.
A mug reading WORLD'S MOST MEDIOCRE COOK that she'd bought after burning pasta.
Books with receipts used as bookmarks.
A framed photograph of us from a weekend trip.
Another from my sister's wedding.
Her running shoes.
Hair dryer.
Jewelry box.
Winter coats.
I packed everything carefully.
I didn't break anything.
Didn't throw photographs across the room.
Didn't destroy gifts.
Anger wanted drama.
I wanted finality.
We already rented a storage unit for camping gear and old furniture.
I moved her boxes there.
Unit 212.
Paid two additional months.
Then I called a locksmith.
"Lost keys?" he asked.
"Something like that."
He replaced the locks that afternoon.
That night I sat alone in the apartment.
It looked larger.
Empty sections of shelves.
Half the closet vacant.
Bathroom counter cleared.
For the first time, the breakup became physically visible.
I ordered dinner.
Couldn't finish it.
Then my phone buzzed.
Facebook message.
A woman I didn't know.
Her profile showed a woman in her early forties standing with two children.
The name was Melissa Hale.
The message began:
I'm the wife.
I immediately knew.
I almost didn't open the rest.
Then I did.
Melissa apologized for contacting me.
She said she didn't want more drama.
She said she wasn't asking me for anything.
She simply believed I deserved the truth because we had both been lied to.
Then she sent screenshots.
Dozens.
Messages between Claire and Melissa's husband, Adrian.
The first message dated back several weeks before our vacation.
I stared at the date.
Before the flights.
Before we'd finalized the hotel.
Before I'd reserved our airport shuttle.
Claire had told me she met Adrian at the pool.
She hadn't.
Not really.
They may have met physically there.
But they'd been speaking long before.
Apparently they'd connected online.
Adrian told Claire he was single.
A businessman who traveled frequently.
Claire flirted.
He flirted back.
The messages became increasingly intimate.
Plans.
Photos.
Late-night conversations.
Then I saw something worse.
Claire had told Adrian that she and I were already broken up.
According to her messages, I wasn't her boyfriend.
I was an ex.
A controlling ex.
We were only traveling together because the reservations were nonrefundable.
One message said:
He's having trouble accepting it's over, so I'm trying to keep things calm until after the trip.
I read it twice.
Another:
Once we're there I can finally stop pretending.