The second night of the holiday weekend, Eugene's phone line went dead. Four hours. Not a ring, not a pickup, nothing.
Eight years together, and every time we were apart—even briefly—he'd never once gone silent like that.
I was sick with it, convinced something had happened to him.
Eighty-three messages. Not one answered. I didn't sleep.
The next morning, Eugene finally called back. His voice was tired, edged with irritation.
"My phone crashed last night, I just saw your calls. What's with the eighty-something messages? I'm a grown man, it's not like I vanished."
It hit me like ice water to the face, and the words died in my throat.
When I didn't respond, his tone softened a fraction.
"I know you were worried, but I really did have something going on. My coworker Lucy Chavez's mother-in-law passed away. I was there helping all night. Left my phone in the car and didn't notice."
The pressure crushing my chest released all at once, like a hand unclenching. I let out a long breath.
After I hung up, I found Lucy's chat window and transferred a thousand dollars.
Sent one line: *My condolences.*
Three minutes later, Lucy called.
"Hey, Lottie—did you send that to the wrong person? Nobody in my family died…"
——
After Lucy's call ended, the screen went dark, and my own face stared back at me.
The awkward smile I'd worn while apologizing to her was still frozen there. It looked awful.
I opened my chat history with Eugene.
The last message was mine, sent at 4:12 a.m.:
*Where are you? I'm really worried.*
I scrolled up. Yesterday's messages.
I'd just walked in the door and snapped him a photo—Mom's plum-glazed ribs, the ones I always begged her for.
He'd sent back a sticker: *Looks so good I'm drooling.*
Below that, a video call from him. He was curled up on his couch, tilting the camera around lazily.
Mom called me away to help and I had to cut the call short.
After we hung up, he messaged me.
*I miss you.*
*This October I'll come back with you. Try those plum ribs you love. And tell your mom I want to marry you.*
Eight years ago today, he'd asked me to be with him.
He'd sworn that if he ever lied to me—ever, for the rest of his life—he deserved to walk out the door and get hit by a car.
Eugene was terrified of dying.
Not long after we first got together, he spiked a fever of 103. When the doctor stepped out to draw blood, he buried his face against me and cried.
He said he'd looked it up online and was scared it might be leukemia.
Voice cracking, he said he wasn't done living yet, but he needed to get his affairs in order.
His forty thousand in savings, he said. Half to his parents, half to me.
He said if it came back positive, I shouldn't wait for him.
I stroked his hair and wiped his tears, laughing at him for acting like a little kid.
But privately I'd thought to myself:
A man this afraid of death, willing to swear an oath like that, would never break it.
But a lifetime hadn't even come close to passing. Not even close. And he'd already lied to me.
Eugene was deeply superstitious. Whoever made him willing to gamble his life on a lie had to matter to him a great deal.
My phone buzzed.
I hesitated, then picked up.
Maybe there's an explanation. Maybe.
"You messaged Lucy?!"
Eugene's voice was low, barely held together, but the anger bled right through.
"Yeah."
"What the hell was that about?"
"You said her mother-in-law died. I sent a gift."
"Is there a problem with that?"
Two seconds of silence on the other end.
"Lottie. You were digging into me."
"I wasn't—"
"No? Then why'd you go messaging Lucy?"
His voice cracked upward.
"Nobody in Lucy's family is dead! I was exhausted, I got it mixed up—and you just fire that off without thinking? If that gets around the office, where does that leave me?!"
