Lauren did not give fake permission. She had survived her own disaster at twenty-seven, a boyfriend who drained her savings and called it shared struggle, and she had come out the other side with clear eyes and a very low tolerance for men who made women feel dramatic for asking basic questions.
“Do you want to call him?” she asked.
“No.”
“Do you want me to call him?”
“Absolutely not.”
She nodded. “Then we drink water and watch everyone else embarrass themselves.”
That was love.
We stayed up too late. Saturday morning, I woke with the dry mouth, puffy face, low-grade headache combination that makes you feel like your own body has filed a complaint. I stood in the bathroom staring at myself. Mascara shadow under my eyes. Hair doing something hateful. From downstairs came the muffled sound of my friends hunting coffee like survivalists.
I should have gone down. I should have eaten toast, made jokes, taken group pictures in matching pajamas, and let the weekend carry me forward.
Instead, I sat on the edge of the tub because one stupid thought hit me so hard I almost said it out loud.
I want to go home and cook dinner with him.
Not for him. With him.
Not because cooking was my job or because I believed domestic effort could repair emotional uncertainty. I just suddenly needed to see Marcus being ordinary. I needed to watch him stand in our kitchen complaining about work, reaching for a spoon, opening the refrigerator, kissing me absently on his way past. I needed proof that my instincts were wrong.
I tried to talk myself out of it for maybe thirty minutes.
I paced around the room. I brushed my teeth twice. I opened the group chat and typed, Headed down soon, then deleted it. I told myself if I left now, I would look insane. If I drove home and found nothing, I would have to admit I had let anxiety drag me two hours across the state because Marcus kissed my forehead too much.
But the longer I ignored the feeling, the worse it got. It changed from nerves into certainty so quietly I almost missed the moment. One second, I was embarrassed by my own suspicion. The next, I knew I needed to get in my car.
I went downstairs and told everyone I had a headache and wanted to pick up medicine in town.
Hannah offered to come with me.
I said no too quickly, then smiled too hard, which probably made me look exactly as normal as a raccoon in a church.
Lauren followed me outside anyway.
She leaned against my car before I could open the driver’s door.
“Something is wrong.”
Not a question. A fact.
I almost told her then. Almost said, I think my fiancé is lying to me, and I feel stupid, and I don’t know why my body is screaming.
Instead, I said, “I just need air.”
She studied me.
“Text me when you get wherever you’re going.”
“I’m going to the pharmacy.”
“Claire.”
“I’ll text you.”
She stepped aside reluctantly.
“If you need me, I’m coming.”
I nodded, got into the car, and drove away before courage could leak out of me.
The drive back to Raleigh felt longer than it should have. I kept switching between anger and embarrassment, which is a nasty combination because you feel dramatic and justified at the same time. Every few minutes, I decided I was ridiculous. Then I remembered Marcus saying, Don’t make it weird by staying home, and my stomach tightened all over again.
By the time I reached our neighborhood, my hands were cold on the wheel even though the heat was on.
Our street looked ordinary. Saturday sunlight. Kids’ bikes in driveways. A dog barking behind a fence. The neighbor across from us washing his car with headphones on. Ordinary life has terrible timing.
Then I saw the car in our driveway.
Not mine. Not his. Not anybody I knew.
A dark green sedan sat slightly crooked, right where my car usually parked when I was home. Marcus’s car was in the garage, which meant he was home, which meant his “working all day downtown” story had died before I even turned off the engine.
I pulled up half a block away and sat there with the car running.
I stared at the sedan like a reasonable explanation might float down from the sky and land on the hood.
Delivery. Friend. Neighbor. Emergency. Surprise.
Pick a lie.
Pick anything.
My heart was pounding so hard it made my throat hurt.
Instead of going inside, I called him.
He answered on the second ring, voice bright and easy.
“Hey, baby.”
I looked at the garage. I looked at the strange car.
“Hey,” I said. “Where are you?”
“At the office,” he said without even a pause.
That was the moment something inside me went cold.
Not cracked. Not shattered. Cold.
Like my body was done bargaining and had moved on without waiting for my permission.
I kept him on the phone longer than I needed to because I wanted to hear whether guilt changed his breathing.
It did not.
That was somehow the worst part. He sounded cheerful, distracted, mildly annoyed in the way people act when they are pretending to be busy and need you to support the costume.
“How’s work?” I asked.
“Brutal,” he said. “I’m drowning in edits.”
“Have you eaten?”
He laughed. “Not yet. Poor overworked me.”
My fingers hurt from gripping the steering wheel.
“Maybe I’ll come by later with food.”
He answered way too fast.
“Don’t. I’ll probably be here late, and I’m all over the place today. You should be relaxing.”
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