The weekend getaway had been planned for months. A cozy cabin by the lake, just Warren and me—our first real break since Sloane started working at the coffee shop. I'd packed my bags the night before, carefully selecting outfits for hiking, swimming, and lazy evenings by the fireplace.
"I'm really looking forward to this," I told Warren over breakfast, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach that had become my constant companion. "Just the two of us, away from everything."
His phone buzzed. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession.
"Sorry," he muttered, glancing at the screen. His expression changed instantly. "It's Sloane."
Of course it was.
"Sloane's called in sick," he announced, already reaching for his laptop. "She can't make it today or tomorrow."
I set down my coffee cup carefully. "What's wrong with her?"
"Stomach bug, I think. Anyway, I can't leave the shop understaffed. You know how busy weekends get."
The cabin keys felt heavy in my pocket. "We have reservations, Warren. Non-refundable ones."
"We'll reschedule," he said, not looking up from his screen. "This is an emergency."
An hour later, after Warren had rushed off to "save the shop," I found myself scrolling through Instagram, my thumb moving almost unconsciously to Sloane's profile.
There she was—radiant in a spa robe, surrounded by friends at the Heavenly Retreat Day Spa. The caption read: "Nothing better than a girls' day when you need to recharge! #blessed #selfcare #spa day"
The timestamp showed 10:17 AM. Today. The same day she'd called in sick with a stomach bug.
When Warren came home that evening, I was waiting with my phone in hand.
"Explain this," I said, showing him the post.
His face went through a series of expressions—surprise, guilt, then defensiveness. "She must have felt better by afternoon."
"She lied to you, Warren. She manipulated you into canceling our weekend."
"No, she didn't. She was genuinely sick this morning. People recover, Elisa."
"And the timing is just coincidence? The one weekend we had planned for months?"
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're trying to get her fired because you're jealous. It's not attractive."
---
The pattern established itself over the next week.
"I'll call you tonight," Warren promised Monday morning, kissing me goodbye.
By midnight, no call.
Tuesday: "I'll check in after we close."
No call.
Wednesday: "I promise I'll call this time."
I waited by my phone until 2 AM.
Each time, the same excuse: "Sloane needed help with inventory." "Teaching Sloane the new brewing technique." "Sloane had questions about the books."
But when Sloane texted him during our rare date night at the Italian restaurant—I saw her name light up his screen—he responded immediately, fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Work emergency," he mumbled, not meeting my eyes.
I watched him type, watched him smile at whatever she'd sent. Then I watched him put his phone away and reach for my hand across the table, as if nothing had happened.
---
"You're not even trying anymore," I said Thursday evening, staring at the dark screen of my phone. No missed calls. No texts.
"I've been busy," Warren replied, not looking up from his laptop. "The shop needs—"
"Don't." I held up my hand. "Just don't."
Friday afternoon, Macy showed up at the coffee shop with a surprise lunch for me—her way of checking in after I'd canceled our girls' night twice in a row.
"I thought you might need this," she said, setting down a bag from my favorite sandwich place. "You look exhausted."
I managed a weak smile. "Just busy with—"
My words died as I turned toward the counter where Warren was working with Sloane. She was holding a small plate with a pastry on it, feeding him a bite. Her fingers lingered at his lips as she laughed at something he'd said, her body angled toward him in a way that spoke of intimacy and comfort.
Warren's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled back at her—the same smile that used to be reserved for me.
Macy's hand touched my arm. "Elisa..."
I couldn't tear my eyes away from them. "I know."
"Has it been like this long?"
I nodded slowly, feeling something final shift inside me.
Macy pulled me into a corner booth, away from Warren's line of sight. "You need to talk to him."
"We've talked. He doesn't see it." My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.
"Then maybe you need to see it," Macy said gently. "This isn't healthy, Elisa."
I looked back at Warren and Sloane, their heads bent together over something on the counter, and finally said the words aloud: "I think our relationship is falling apart."
Saying it made it real in a way thinking it never had.
And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.
