The last chat I opened was not Tom's.
It was Gabe's.
My fingers shake as I tap back into the thread. There are two blue ticks under the message and two blue ticks under the picture.
Fuck.
7
GABE
I unlock my front door a little after nine and walk into the same quiet I always come home to.
No TV, no music, just the leaves of the microgreens on my kitchen sill swaying to the night's breeze and the city's noise muffled through the walls.
I drop my keys in the bowl by the door, shrug off my jacket, and toe my boots off one at a time. My knees complain and my back adds its opinion. Middle age is a very honest friend.
The day was long. Client walk-through, training a green team that thought gun safety was a suggestion, three conference calls shifted across time zones.
Private security sounds glamorous when you say it fast. In reality, it is cheap hotel coffee, exit routes, and telling rich people their doors are not as secure as they think.
I open the fridge and stare at shelves that hold a carton of eggs, an apple, half a container of takeout noodles, and a lonely beer. Igrab the beer, pop the cap and take a swallow, then head for the couch.
My phone is waiting on the coffee table. One missed call from a client.
Two messages from a woman whose name I have to read twice to place.
We went out three times a few months back.
Nice woman. Smart. Funny enough.
The sex was fine. I stopped going out with her after I realized I kept thinking of someone else when she kissed me. I delete the thread and lean back.
The apartment is neat and empty. A couch, a TV, a bookshelf with more manuals than novels. I could afford nicer things, even a bigger place.
But I spend more time in airports than here, so it never feels urgent. The only thing that feels urgent is the folder I told myself I would stop opening and still do.
I unlock the phone again and tap on Photos. Scroll past the unit pictures, the landscapes, the training shots.
Land on the one I always land on. Her father's living room. Balloons. Beer bottles.
Men shouting over music. In the corner, carrying a tray, face turned half toward the camera, Lena in a floral dress.
Twenty-three then. Laugh lines at the corners of her mouth. Soft hair pinned up in a way that did not even pretend to hide her neck. Curves that made my hands itch.
The night I finally ignored every rule I had set for myself and took what I wanted.
I have gone over that decision a thousand times. The feel of her, the sounds she made, the way she looked at me in the mirror when I had her spread open.
Then the way I put distance back between us in the morning, telling myself I did it for her.
Too young. Too close to my oldest friend. Too much risk.
I told myself she deserved a man with a normal life. I told myself I did her a favor.
It has been five years and I still know that is bullshit.
My phone buzzes in my hand. A new message flashes over her picture.
