"Check the second room on the right. That's where Michael slept last time."
Something twisted low in my chest. I'd never known Michael had stayed over at her place.
Passing through the living room, I saw the women's clothes hung out to dry on her balcony, and Michael's clothes mixed in among them.
Including his underwear, right beside Gretchen's.
Gretchen followed my gaze and tossed off a remark.
"Last night that idiot Michael had too much to drink. He threw up all over himself, and all over me too."
"So I washed everything for him."
It sounded like an explanation, but every word was a challenge.
She hadn't always provoked me this openly.
She used to swear to me that she and Michael were nothing more than childhood friends.
That she'd never harbor any improper thoughts.
These past two years she'd stopped saying that, always wearing a look that said believe it or not, I don't care.
Now it had escalated. She used her eyes, her veiled words, to declare war on me.
She was waiting for me to tear away the thin paper between her and Michael, waiting for me to fight her over it.
But I only answered calmly: "Mm."
As I pulled my gaze back, I happened to notice the coffee on the tea table, the brand Michael had loved drinking for years.
Just like at the home we shared, where there were the slimming products Gretchen always used.
I was calmer than I'd imagined.
After her shock faded, a trace of disappointment showed in Gretchen's eyes.
After all, I hadn't fought with her the way she'd expected.
Hadn't given her the scene where she could play the wounded little flower and make Michael ache for her, take her side.
I followed her into the room.
The moment I stepped through the door, I saw the wall by the bed, a heart-shaped wall covered with photos of her and Michael together.
Some were casual snapshots from everyday life, others were warm, intimate portraits shot in a professional studio.
There was a photo from every single year, from their births right up to now.
The one in the very center stood out, Gretchen in a white gown, a white veil over her head.
Hand in hand with Michael in a suit, the two of them running into the wind.
Not wedding photos, yet so much like them.
In every single picture, Michael was smiling, easy and happy.
Gretchen followed my eyes to the photos on the wall and said:
"These are all the beautiful memories Michael and I have recorded, from childhood to now."
I felt nothing. So it turned out that once your heart had gone to ash, you really did stop caring about everything.
My voice only went a few degrees colder as I agreed:
"They really are your beautiful memories."
She looked at me and deliberately suggested:
"Sandra, why don't you join us?"
A cold smile touched my lips.
In that snide, mocking tone, she was telling me:
Of the three of us, I was the one who came last.
Even after twelve years with Michael, I was still the outsider.
Facing her provoking stare, I stayed calm:
"A game for two stops being fun with three."
I had no wish to waste more words on her, and asked again:
"Where's the pillow?"
Gretchen hadn't expected me to be this composed, and the smile on her face turned even more fake.
She walked over to the wardrobe and opened it, complaining on purpose as she searched.
"Michael, honestly. Where did he put that pillow! He's not usually so careless about things."
"I'm really going to have a good talk with him about this one of these days."
I stood off to the side without a word, calmly watching her perform her own little play.
She pulled Michael's clothes out of the cabinet, his underwear included.
Gretchen looked at me and said with a smile:
"Sandra, don't get the wrong idea. Michael stays here seven days a month at most."
"Men need their space sometimes. When you're away on business, he comes over here."
"He's just lazy. When he comes to my place, he lets me wait on him, and he doesn't have to lift a finger."
She called it an explanation, but which word wasn't a challenge?
