For a long moment, my thumb hovers over the keyboard.How are you? Did you eat today? I’m sorry.
The words blur together, but I don’t delete them this time. I hit send before I can second-guess it.
The screen glows with the single bubble, small and desperate, and I set the phone facedown like it might burn me, knowing it’ll go unanswered just like the rest.
Outside, a siren wails somewhere in the distance, the sound stretching thin before it fades. I take another drink, the cold bottle sweating in my hand, and I look anywhere but at those papers.
The TV’s still on from last night, frozen on some sports channel running highlights from a game I didn’t finish watching. I hit play, let the noise fill the room, but it doesn’t stick. My phone buzzes.
Mac:You alive?
I stare at the message for a full minute before replying.
Me:Yeah. Just busy.
Mac:Busy = sitting in the dark with a beer?
I almost smile, but it’s gone before it reaches my face.
Me:Something like that.
Mac:You should move back. The season's almost over, we could use a coach who knows what he’s doing.
I typecan't, delete it, then type it again. Finally hit send.
Mac:Thought so. But if you keep this up, you’re gonna start talking to your plants.
I look at the empty counter, no plants in sight, and take another swallow of beer.
The sports highlights blur into commercials. I kill the TV, grab another bottle, and head for the back porch. The night air is cooler out here, but it doesn’t clear my head. The flyer for theRichmond gala is still in my pocket. I pull it out, turn it over in my hands, then toss it onto the table beside me.
The gold lettering catches the porch light, glinting like it’s in on the joke about my life.
I run my thumb along the edge, and before I can stop it, the memory comes back.
The first gala was loud, champagne glasses clinking, laughter bouncing off marble walls. Elaine in black satin, hair swept up, bare shoulders gleaming under the chandelier light. Elegance clung to her like a second skin; the same quiet command she brought to business attire and red-bottom heels now poured into satin and candlelight. I’d told myself I was just keeping her company, that slipping away from the rest of the table to dance wasn’t crossing any lines.
We moved slowly, her hand warm at the back of my neck, the band’s trumpet swelling as she leaned in to say something I couldn’t hear over the music. I didn’t need to hear it—the look in her eyes said enough.
When the song ended, she laughed like the whole night was ours. And I let her believe it. Hell, I wanted to believe it too.
The flyer’s still in my hand when I blink back to the porch, the sound of the gala fading into the sounds of the city. I drop it onto the table and take a long drink, the beer gone before I even taste it.
I pick up my phone scroll through my contacts until her name stares back at me. My thumb hovers over the call button.
But before I can tap it, another image cuts in. Stella, at the door of our bedroom, hair loose, eyes sharp enough to gut me where I stood. The night she found out. The silence between us is heavier than any words I could’ve said.
The phone slips back onto the table, screen down. I grab another beer instead.
Inside, the divorce papers are still waiting, and for a second, I think about signing them. Just to stop seeing her face every time I try to move forward. But I don’t.
I never do.
By the time I head in, the house feels colder than when I left it. I drop onto the couch, beer still in hand, and let my head fall back. Somewhere between one slow breath and the next, the bottle slips from my fingers and lands softly on the carpet.
And I don’t bother picking it up.
Stella
