I cut the Portland trip short by a day. The client signed off early, and I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I texted Jaden from the airport—*Coming home tonight*—but he didn't reply. That wasn't unusual. He was bad with his phone.
The apartment was quiet when I let myself in. His keys were on the counter. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. I set my bag down and kicked off my shoes.
Then I heard it. A low sound from the bedroom. Soft and breathy.
I walked down the hall. The door was half-open. I pushed it the rest of the way.
Jaden was in our bed. A woman was under him, her red nails pressed into his back. Her hair was dark and spread across my pillow. For a second, neither of them noticed me.
Then Jaden turned his head. His eyes went wide. He scrambled off her, grabbing for the sheet. "Whit—"
I didn't let him finish. I pulled out my phone, opened the timer app, and set it for thirty minutes. I hit start. The quiet ticking filled the room.
"What are you doing?" he said.
I walked past him to the kitchen. I opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a box of garbage bags. I shook one open and went back to the bedroom.
The woman was sitting up now, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her lipstick was smudged. She looked young. Maybe twenty-five.
"You need to leave," I told her.
She glanced at Jaden. He didn't say anything. She grabbed her clothes from the floor—red lace top, black skirt, bra—and hurried past me into the bathroom. The door clicked shut.
Jaden stood there in his boxers, hands out like he was calming a spooked animal. "Whitley. Let me explain."
"You have twenty-eight minutes," I said.
I opened his closet and started pulling shirts off hangers. I dropped them into the bag. He stepped forward.
"Stop. Just stop and listen to me."
I added his shoes. His belts. The watch he left on the dresser.
"It didn't mean anything," he said. His voice cracked. "I swear. It was just—"
"Twenty-six minutes."
He grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make me stop. I looked down at his hand, then up at his face. He let go.
"I love you," he said. "You know I love you."
I tied the first bag and started a second one. I went to the bathroom and swept his toothbrush, his razor, his cologne into it. The woman was gone. She must have slipped out while we were talking.
Jaden followed me. "Whit, please. We can work this out. I'll do whatever you want. Therapy. Couples counseling. Anything."
I pulled open the drawer where he kept his gym clothes. I dumped everything into the bag.
"You're being crazy," he said. The edge in his voice was new. "You're not even going to talk to me?"
I walked the two bags to the front door and set them down. I checked my phone. Eighteen minutes left.
Jaden was breathing hard now. He ran his hands through his hair. "Fine. You want me to beg? I'll beg. I made a mistake. One mistake. You're really going to throw away three years over one mistake?"
I went back to the bedroom and pulled the sheets off the bed. I balled them up and carried them to the door. I dropped them on top of the bags.
"What do you want me to say?" His voice was loud now. "That I'm sorry? I'm sorry! I'm fucking sorry, Whitley!"
I didn't answer. I checked the timer again. Twelve minutes.
He stared at me. Then he laughed. It was a bitter, ugly sound. "You're really doing this. You're actually doing this."
I met his eyes. I didn't blink.
He grabbed the bags and shoved his feet into his shoes. He didn't bother with a shirt. He yanked the door open and turned back.
"You'll regret this," he said. "You'll call me in a week. I know you will."
I closed the door. I locked it. I heard his footsteps in the hall. Then nothing.
I stood there for a long time. The apartment was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. I looked at my phone. The timer still had nine minutes left.
I canceled it.
Then I sat down on the floor and stared at the wall. I didn't cry. I didn't feel anything. Just empty. Like someone had scooped out my insides and left a shell.
I couldn't stay there. Not in that apartment. Not tonight.
I booked a room at The Edgewater Hotel downtown. I threw some clothes in a bag and left.
The hotel lobby was warm and quiet. I checked in and went straight to the bar. I ordered a glass of wine and sat in the corner. I didn't drink it. I just held it and stared at nothing.
Then I felt someone watching me.
I looked up.
Niko Gray was sitting at the far end of the bar. He had a glass of whiskey in front of him. He was wearing a dark suit, no tie. His eyes were on me.
I froze.
Niko Gray. My old boss. The man who once told me my quarterly report read like I'd given up on impressing anyone, including myself. The man who made me so angry I quit his company four years ago and swore I'd never work for anyone like him again.
He stood up. He walked over.
"Whitley Edwards," he said. His voice was exactly the same. Low and even. No warmth. No surprise.
"Niko," I said.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he glanced at my untouched wine. "Rough day?"
I almost laughed. "You could say that."
He nodded. He didn't ask. He didn't pry. He just stood there, and for some reason, that made it worse.
"I should go," I said.
I stood up. He didn't move. I had to step around him.
"Whitley," he said.
I stopped.
"If you need anything," he said quietly, "you have my number."
I didn't. I'd deleted it years ago.
I walked away without answering.
