I hadn't offered him pity. I was too angry for pity. I’d spent fifteen years watching him be the golden boy, the guy who got the girl and the career and the perfectly symmetrical life. And now he was taking a sledgehammer to it because he was bored? Because he felt a spark?
"You cut it off," I’d told him, my voice hard and flat. The voice I used when I told a client their joists were rotted and the whole deck had to go. "You end it. You go home to your wife, and you spend the rest of your life making it up to her, and you never breathe a word of this again."
"It's not that simple."
"It is," I’d snapped. "It’s exactly that simple. You’re just scared. You’ve been doing this for months, Ryan. It’s time."
I had been so sure. So black and white. I gave him the ultimatum. Be a man, or get out of my sight.
He had looked at me then, and I saw how terrified he was. A man at a crossroads. Four hours later, he texted:
You were right. This ends tonight.
A knock on the window made me flinch.
Collins stood outside the truck, work gloves dangling from one hand, his face smudged with drywall dust. He was grinning—that easy twenty-three-year-old grin that came from not yet knowing how badly life could fuck you—but it faltered when he got a good look at me.
"You good, boss?"
I rolled down the window. The cold air hit my face, sharp enough to sting.
"Yeah. Fine. Just got a call I need to handle."
He nodded, but his eyes didn't leave mine. The kid was perceptive. He knew when someone was lying, but he also knew when to push and when to back off. Right now, he was choosing to back off.
"Want me to finish up?" he asked. "I can lock the site when I'm done."
I looked at him—this kid who showed up on time, learned fast, who trusted me to teach him how to read a level and pull a permit and not cut corners. He didn't deserve to be lied to. But I couldn't tell him the truth either.
"Yeah," I said. "Thanks, Collins. You got this."
He stepped back from the truck, still watching me with that look that said he knew something was wrong but wasn't going to make it worse by asking.
"Drive safe," he said.
I nodded, rolled up the window, and started the truck.
Was it my fault?
If I hadn't pushed him… If I hadn't been so hard-assed about the moral high ground. If I had just been his friend instead of his conscience.
Maybe he wouldn't have been on that road. Maybe he would have gone home.
I took the exit for the industrial park, looping back around, driving aimlessly past warehouses and distribution centers.
Olivia found the phone.
I pictured her in that pristine kitchen. I knew exactly what it looked like; I’d helped Ryan install the backsplash three years ago. Subway tile, herringbone pattern. Olivia had stood there handing us spacers, making sure the grout lines were perfect. She noticed everything, cataloged every detail.
She was probably sitting there right now, staring at Ryan's phone, trying to piece together a puzzle that didn't make sense.
I could lie to her.
The thought hit me as I idled at a red light. I could go over there, play dumb.I don't know why he was on Route 9, Liv. Maybe he was looking at a property. Maybe he was lost. Maybe the GPS malfunctioned.
I could patch the hole and spackle over it. Paint it white and let her keep the memory of the husband she thought she had. Ryan the Saint. Ryan the victim of black ice. Ryan, who loved her more than anything.
It would be cleaner, wouldn’t it? Less debris.
