Every step down the walkway to my front porch feels heavier than it should, as though I’m dragging the weight of my old life behind me. The familiar sight of my house, warm and welcoming, should comfort me. Instead, a strange melancholy grips my heart.
I thought I’d be happier to come home. I’ve been looking forward to seeing Ben for weeks. Sure, I was disappointed whenhe told me he couldn’t pick me up at the airport, but I understood. He’s busy. And after three months apart, what’s another hour or so?
I imagine the reunion ahead of me—wrapping my arms around him and basking in the familiarity of our years together. But the warmth that should flood me at the thought doesn’t come.
Instead, my stomach knots. Maybe it’s just jet lag or the nerves of being away so long. Maybe it’s the faint pull of India lingering at the edges of my mind—the mountains, the friends I made, the steaming chai, and, yes, those eyes that won’t seem to let me go.
Even with an ocean between us, I feel their magnetic pull, an invisible thread tightening around my heart. Watching. Waiting with an intensity I can’t ignore. Leaving wasn’t enough—maybe it never could have been. Whatever calls me back isn’t done with me yet.
The pull toward that place is relentless, but I firmly tell myself it doesn’t matter. I’m here now. This is where I belong. Ben is my anchor. That hasn’t changed. That can’t have changed. Not when I’m drowning in this sea of uncertainty.
I stop at the door and drop my bags onto the stoop, wrangling my keys out of my backpack pocket when I find the door locked. I frown, surprised that Ben didn't leave it open for me when he knew I was coming home.
The small knot in my stomach tightens. It’s silly—I tell myself it’s nothing. I’m being ridiculous. But my hand lingers in front of the doorknob for a moment longer than it should, hesitation prickling at the back of my mind. Something feels… off.
I tell myself it’s just the residual fog of travel, the emotional whiplash of arriving home after so long away as I slip the key into the lock and turn it. The door swings open, and instead of stepping into its warm embrace, I feel like I’m being swallowed by the gaping maw of the unknown.
“Hello?” I call as I make my way inside, dropping my bags in the foyer.
I wonder at the lack of a response. He had to know I was coming home today. At least I think he did. Flying backwards over the international date line never made sense to me, especially as challenged as I am with time. I very well may have told him the wrong day.
Shrugging off my jacket and kicking off my shoes, I make my way through the living room and down the hall. At the sound of the water running, a smile spreads across my face.
Of course, he wanted to freshen up for me. I walk down the hall, excitement quickening my steps at the thought of surprising him. Until the faint murmur of voices gives me pause. Shrugging it off as one of the many podcasts Ben is always listening to, I continue to the bedroom where I toss my travel-wrinkled clothes into the hamper and grab my robe.
The red velvet is soft in my grip, and I smile at the memory of receiving the Valentine’s Day present, back when we still exchanged gifts. My smile falls as I try to recall the last time Ben gave me something like this.
No matter, we are together again, and that’s all that matters. I shake my head as I walk past the rumpled bed, just like it always is when I’m gone. Somehow, the unchanging sight steadies me. I was always the one to make it, not Ben. All is as it should be.
I step into the bathroom, steam billowing out at me. My skin pebbles at the cool air from the bedroom at my back and the humid heat from the shower at my front. I hang my robe on the back of the door, set my phone down on the counter, and step forward to pull back the curtain to surprise him when a distinctly female moan cuts through the steam.
My face screws up in concentration as my hand hovers in front of the curtain, trying to figure out what Ben could be listening to that would sound like that. He doesn’t like fiction.
“Oh, fuck yeah, just like that,” Ben groans.
My stomach bottoms out as I realize this isn’t a podcast, and he sure as shit isn’t in the shower in anticipation of me coming home. With dawning horror, it hits me. He’s in there with someone else.
I stumble backwards, silently take my robe off the hook and slip back out the door where I jerk my robe on, my nakedness making me feel even more vulnerable and raw. I glance around the bedroom, searching for clues to help me piece together the life that is falling apart right now. Should I have seen this coming?
Looking around in bewilderment, I notice minute details I hadn’t seen in my excitement of surprising him. The pictures of us are missing from their usual spots on the dresser, and the slippers on the floor next to the bed are most definitely not mine.
Walking over to his side of the bed, I can’t stop myself from peeking into his trashcan and seeing the discarded condom wrappers it contains. I double over, the sight a visceral punch to the gut.
Ben is cheating on me. The irrefutable evidence is staring me in the face.
Questions race through my mind—how long has this been happening? With who? And most of all, why? I’d given him years of my life. I’ve gone above and beyond to be supportive, even going so far as to write papers and lessons for him. I’d offered, no begged, to be more adventurous in the bedroom.
Hell, I’d molded myself to his exact specifications with the exception of my petite, curvy build. No matter what I did, I couldn’t change that. I tried. I really had. Everything within my control that I could do to be a great partner, I had done.
And what had Ben done? Taken. Always taking, without giving anything in return—except taking me for granted. It hadall been about him—his wants, his needs, his desires. What a fool I had been. What a fucking fool.
I stand there frozen, the weight of his betrayal crashing down on me. The lies. The years I’d wasted on him. After my failure to find the plant, I had thought if I could just make it home, to him, I would be able to figure out a path forward. I could do it with his help.
But now, I have nothing.Nothing.
My chest implodes in on itself until it's all I can do to force air in and out of my lungs as the truth guts me. But the more I think about it—the deception, the audacity—the heaviness begins to shift into something hotter. Sharper.
Rage hits as fast and furious as the monsoon rains, propelling me into action as I storm out of the bedroom. In the kitchen, I reach under the sink for the cleaning bucket and carry it to the ice cube maker—the one he had to have because he likes the nuggets. I fill the bucket with as much ice as I can and top it off with cold water.
