Chapter 1 - THE EMPTY APARTMENT
“You can’t do this to me.”
Simon’s voice came through my phone at 6:17 p.m., thin and unsteady.
I was sitting in my sister Melissa’s driveway with Milo curled beside me in the passenger seat.
Behind me were two moving trucks filled with almost nine years of my life.
Behind Simon was an apartment that suddenly looked nothing like the home he remembered.
“I already did.”
There was silence on the line.
Then I heard him walking.
Fast.
Heavy.
Panicked.
“Rachel, where’s the couch?”
“With me.”
“The dining table?”
“Mine.”
“The bed frame?”
“Mine.”
“The espresso machine?”
I glanced at Melissa through the windshield.
She was standing on her porch with her arms folded, watching me through the glass.
“Also mine.”
Simon breathed hard into the phone.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
That almost made me laugh.
Twelve hours earlier, he had looked me straight in the face and told me he would put a ring on my finger when I finally started acting like wife material.
Now he was standing in a half-empty apartment asking what was wrong with me.
“Nothing.”
“Rachel, stop acting insane.”
“I’m not acting.”
“You emptied our home while I was at work.”
“I took what belonged to me.”
“Our home.”
“No, Simon.”
I stared through the windshield at the cardboard boxes stacked inside Melissa’s garage.
“It was a place where I performed unpaid labor while waiting for you to decide whether I deserved a promotion.”
“Jesus Christ.”
His voice rose.
“I told you I was angry.”
“No.”
I tightened my fingers around the phone.
“You were honest.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“You told me I complained too much.”
“I was frustrated.”
“You said I didn’t cook enough of the things you liked.”
“I didn’t say you never cooked.”
“You said the apartment wasn’t clean.”
“You’re twisting everything.”
“You said you were tired of coming home and hearing about chores.”
“Because I was tired.”
“And then you told me I wasn’t wife material.”
Another silence.
This one lasted longer.
When Simon finally spoke again, his voice had changed.
The anger was fading.
Fear was replacing it.
“Come home.”
“No.”
“We need to talk.”
“We talked last night.”
“No, you talked at me and then disappeared.”
“I didn’t disappear.”
I looked at the boxes.
“I relocated.”
“Rachel.”
“No.”
“Just come home.”
“No.”
His breath hitched.
Then he tried another approach.
“What about nine years?”
There it was.
Nine years.
The weapon he thought would bring me back.
Nine years of birthdays.
Nine years of holidays.
Nine years of rent.
Nine years of laundry.
Nine years of feeding his dog, remembering his mother’s medication after her surgery, buying Christmas gifts for relatives who signed both our names on the tags, and sitting through office parties where people called me his wife because it was easier than explaining why I wasn’t.
“Those nine years are exactly why I’m not coming back.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I gave you nine years to know what I was worth.”
“Rachel, I love you.”
For one dangerous second, my chest hurt.
Because I believed him.
That was the worst part.
I believed that Simon loved me.
I also believed he had become so comfortable receiving everything I gave him that he no longer understood the difference between loving me and benefiting from me.
“I love you too.”
His breathing stopped.
“Then come home.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because love isn’t enough anymore.”
He swore under his breath.
Then I heard something fall.
Probably one of the kitchen stools.
His stool, technically.
One of the few pieces of furniture he had purchased himself.
“I’ll buy the ring.”
I closed my eyes.
“Simon.”
“We’ll go Saturday.”
“I don’t want a ring.”
“We’ll pick it together.”
“I said I don’t want one.”
“You’ve wanted one for years.”
“I wanted you to want to marry me.”
“I do.”
“No.”
My voice was calm now.
“You want me to come back.”
“That’s the same thing.”
And there it was again.
Another sentence he didn’t understand.
Another sentence I would remember.
“No, Simon.”
“It isn’t.”
I ended the call.
For several seconds, I sat motionless.
Milo raised his head from the passenger seat and looked at me.
“You and me now, buddy.”
His tail thumped once.
I laughed.
Then I cried.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
I just sat behind the steering wheel while nine years leaked quietly out of me.
Melissa opened the passenger door.
She didn’t say anything.
She simply reached across Milo and hugged me.
That night, I slept in her guest room.
Or at least I tried.
At 11:06 p.m., Simon texted.
Please call me.
At 11:17.
I’m sorry.
At 11:43.
My mom wants to talk to you.
At midnight.
This is getting ridiculous.
At 12:38.
You’re throwing away nine years over one argument.
At 1:12.
Milo is OUR dog.
At 1:46.
If you don’t come back tomorrow, I’m calling the landlord.
At 2:03.
I already called him.
I stared at that message.
Something about it made me sit up.
Melissa was asleep down the hall.
The house was silent.
I read the message again.
I already called him.
Why would that matter?
My notice was legal.
My name remained on the lease until its expiration.
My half of the remaining shared expenses had been paid.
I had taken only things I could prove belonged to me.
I opened my banking app.
Everything looked normal.
Then I checked the joint household account.
My stomach tightened.
There was a new transaction.
$4,800.
Transferred out.
The transfer had happened at 8:42 p.m.
I stared at the recipient.
SIMON HART - PERSONAL.
The household account had contained six months of emergency savings.
We had contributed equally.
Or at least that was what I thought.
I refreshed the screen.
Another transaction appeared.
$1,900.
Then another.
$2,250.
My pulse started pounding.
By 2:10 a.m., the joint account contained less than seventy dollars.
I immediately called the bank’s fraud line.
The representative confirmed Simon was an authorized account holder.
Which meant the transfers were not technically unauthorized.
But that wasn’t the part that scared me.
It was what the representative said next.
“Ms. Carter, while I have you on the line, are you aware there is another linked account associated with this profile?”
I sat completely still.
“What other account?”
There was a pause.
“A savings account ending in 4419.”
“I don’t have a savings account ending in 4419.”
“It’s been linked to your joint profile for approximately three years.”
I stopped breathing.
“How much is in it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose information if you aren’t listed as an owner.”
“Who is?”
Another pause.
“I can tell you the primary account holder is Simon Hart.”
Of course.
Then the representative added one more sentence.
“But, Ms. Carter, your Social Security number appears in the original account-opening documentation.”
I stared into the darkness.
“That’s impossible.”
“I strongly recommend you visit a branch tomorrow with identification.”
“What does my Social Security number have to do with his account?”
“I can’t determine that from my screen.”
My mouth went dry.
“Was I ever listed as a co-owner?”
“I’m not able to confirm that tonight.”
I looked toward the bedroom door.
Milo was sleeping beside the bed.
My suitcase sat half-open on the floor.
For the first time since leaving Simon, the breakup no longer felt like the biggest problem in my life.
“Can you tell me when the account was opened?”
“Yes.”
The representative gave me the date.
I almost dropped the phone.
It was three years earlier.
The same week Simon had asked me to email him copies of my tax documents because he said we needed them for a rental application.
We had never submitted that rental application.
At least, I hadn’t.
The representative continued speaking.
I barely heard her.
My eyes were fixed on Simon’s latest text.
You’ll regret making this ugly.
For the first time that night, I believed him.
Not because I thought leaving him was a mistake.
Because I suddenly understood something I should have understood years earlier.
May you like
Simon had been keeping something from me.
And whatever it was had started long before he ever called me wife material.
