"I don't know who she is," Mrs. Patterson continued, "but I thought you should see it. Men like that don't change. I'm just looking out for you."
I stared at the photo. Shane's face. The woman's hands on him. The angle that made it look like something it probably was.
Probably.
But my brain wasn't processing probabilities. My brain was processing patterns. David at his work Christmas party, his assistant’s hand on his arm. David’s late nights at the office. David’s excuses—reasonable until they weren’t.
You're too much work. No one's going to want your mess.
"I have to go." My voice came from somewhere far away. "I have a class."
I left before she could respond. Left the phone, the photo, the honey-sweet smile that had finally found the knife it was looking for.
I don't know how I made it through the rest of the day.
Teaching on autopilot. Smiling when students asked questions. Nodding at the right moments during the faculty meeting.
Everything was muffled, like I was watching my life from underwater.
That night, alone in my apartment, I finally let myself break apart.
Zoe was in her room, headphones on, oblivious. I sat on the couch where Shane had kissed me a hundred times, staring at my phone, reading the article again. And again. And again.
Teen mom energy, desperate to lock him down.
He'll be gone in a month.
My phone buzzed. It was Shane.
Shane
Hey, beautiful. Quiet shift so far. How was your day?
I stared at the message. Couldn't make my fingers type a response.
Another buzz, twenty minutes later.
Shane
Thinking about you. Can't wait to see you tomorrow night.
The words blurred through my tears. Yesterday, that text would have made me smile. Would have made me feel chosen, wanted, lucky.
Now it just felt like a lie I’d already heard before.
Another buzz.
Shane
You okay? You're usually faster with the comebacks.
I turned off my phone.
The photo of Shane and the woman was burned into my retinas. His face. Her hands. The intimacy of their posture. Maybe it was innocent. Maybe she was an old friend. A coworker. Someone meaningless.
But old friends and coworkers don’t stand that close.
‘No one’s going to want your mess.’
