I park near the front, keeping my camera steady as I film through the window. He goes inside and places an order. Strawberry banana, it looks like. My stomach immediately betrays me with a loud grumble. Of course it does. Because of course I’m sitting here filming my cheating ex while being reminded I never ate dinner. And the food I made tonight is sitting at home. With the man I love. Which, inconveniently, is exactly where I’d much rather be.
When he steps back outside, he does another slow scan of the parking lot, eyes flicking around, before heading to his vehicle. And that’s when I notice it. A second smoothie. Tucked under his jacket. Like he’s hiding it.
Don’t do it, Brian.
Don’t do this to her.
I follow.
Left turn. Then a right. Through a neighborhood where I almost lose him, until he slows in front of an all-brick house. I park in a driveway a few houses down, zooming in through my camera lens, my heartbeat thumping in my chest as I watch.
He steps out, walks up the front path, that second smoothie still in his hand, completely unaware of the fact that I was following him. Then he knocks twice. I hold my breath. And awoman answers.
Dark brown hair. Soft, kind eyes. For half a second, I wonder if she’s maybe just a friend? Perhaps a coworker? But then she flings her arms around his neck and presses her lips to his in a kiss and Iknow.I know.
My hands are shaking now but I keep recording, breathing in deep, steadying myself even as nausea twists my stomach. I don’t stop filming until she pulls him inside and shuts the front door.
I lower the camera, turn off the video, then I open the car door and barf. All over the gravel street, narrowly missing the inside of my car.
When I finish, I wipe the back of my mouth with my hand and grab my water, taking a long sip. I swish it around, then spit. Then I force my hands to steady on the wheel. I reverse out of the driveway and drive a few houses down before pulling over again, this time parking along the street.
There are still two hours left on my clock. I need to wait. Watch. See when he leaves. But my mind won’t stop spinning. It keeps replaying every second of what I just saw like a horror movie I know I’ll never be able to forget.
A notification buzzes on my phone. It’s a message from a blocked number. My stomach clenches because I already know who it is. Messages from the PI portal always come through as unknown to protect our identities. It’sher.I
I take another deep breath, trying to keep the remaining contents of my stomach down.
Blocked Number:Hello.Checking in. Have you seen Brian yet?
My fingers hover over the screen. I could sayI’m so sorry. OrI know how this feels and it’s going to be hard at first, but you’ll get through this, I promise.OrI wish I didn’t have to send this to you. I wish I could tell you that you were wrong.
But I don’t send any of those responses. Because this isn’t personal. It can’t be. This is my job. And no matter how much my chest aches with the old, familiar pain, she deserves to know the truth without my emotions attached so that she can decide what she wants to do next.
I upload the footage that I’ve captured so far and attach it to my reply.
Anonymous:Here’s what I’ve recorded. I’m waiting outside the house for him to exit.
I hit send. No extra words. No condolences. Just the truth in black and white. That’s what I wanted when I was in her shoes. That’s what I craved. And a few minutes later, when my phone buzzes with her response, I know that’s what she needed too.
Anonymous:Thank you.
Just two words. Like she knew. Like she expected this. But then again, most of them do. That’s why they hire me.
I don’t respond. Just keep my eyes locked on the door, willing Brian to leave.
Come on, you asshole. Don’t do it. Walk away before you start. Have a conscience for once in your fucking life. Go back to your woman. Go back to your child!
But he doesn’t leave. The front door remains shut for another agonizing hour. And then—finally—the door opens again and he exits. He looks disheveled. Hair a mess. Shirt wrinkled in ways it wasn’t before. He leans in, kisses the woman again, before heading to his truck like he didn’t just completely shatter the life of yet another person who put their trust in him.
I finish filming his departure, my fingers cold and steady as I send off the last of the footage.
Anonymous:Here’s his departure. If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to reach out to the company.
She doesn’t respond. My chest aches as I stare at the empty textthread, wondering what she’s doing right now. How she’s feeling now.
Is she gathering up all his things, throwing them out onto the lawn?
Is she sitting in the dark, nursing her new child, trying to figure out how she’s supposed to move forward?
