Chapter 2 - The Sound of Burning Bridges
The hotel room smelled like industrial carpet cleaner, stale air conditioning, and cheap linen. It was the kind of nondescript room off Interstate 95 where people went when they had nowhere else to be, or when they were trying to outrun their own lives.
I sat on the edge of the queen-sized mattress, elbows resting on my knees, staring down at my smartphone on the glass-topped nightstand.
It buzzed again. A sharp, rhythmic vibration that rattled against the glass like a frantic heartbeat.
*Incoming Call: Maya.*
I didn’t reach for it. I just watched the screen illuminate the dim corners of the room. The blue light washed over the white walls, faded, and then lit up again as the phone rolled immediately to voicemail, only to ignite three seconds later with another incoming call.
Call number forty-eight.
Then forty-nine.
By 9:15 p.m., the calls finally stopped, replaced by a rapid-fire succession of text messages. The screen became a ticker tape of unraveling panic:
*7:52 PM: Babe, this isn’t funny. Where are your clothes?*
*8:04 PM: Did something happen? Did you have an emergency? Please call me, I’m terrified.*
*8:17 PM: Why is your key on the counter?*
*8:35 PM: Pick up the phone. Pick up the damn phone! What is this?!*
*8:50 PM: Did someone say something to you? Who did you talk to?*
*9:02 PM: I’m begging you. Just talk to me. We can fix whatever this is.*
*9:14 PM: Don't do this to me.*
Notice the shift. At 8:04, she was worried I was injured in a ditch somewhere. By 8:50, she was already asking who I had talked to. Guilty conscience doesn’t take long to surface. When an innocent person walks into a home stripped of their partner's belongings, their first instinct is fear for the other person’s safety. When a guilty person does, their first instinct is self-preservation. They immediately wonder which lie caught up with them.
I tapped the screen and opened the voicemails. There were six.
I pressed play on the first one.
Her voice was high-pitched, slightly breathless, trying to sound playful but laced with an undeniable tremor. *"Hey… so I just got back from the store and, uh… your closet is empty? Did you take your stuff to the dry cleaners or something? Babe, call me back as soon as you get this. Seriously, it's creeping me out."*
I skipped to the fourth one, left at 8:43 p.m.
This time, the mask was gone. Her breath was ragged, hitching between syllables, the distinct sound of tears thick in her throat. *"Please… please just answer. I know you’re upset. I know Daniel told you about the retreat. It wasn’t—it’s not what you think, I swear to God! I was going to tell you, but I knew how it would look, and I didn't want you to worry. It was a company mandatory event, everyone went! Please, baby, don’t do this. Don’t leave like this. Just come home. Let’s sit down and talk."*
She still didn't know about the video. She thought Daniel had merely mentioned the retreat itself. She thought her only crime was lying about her location, covering up an innocent corporate gathering to avoid an awkward conversation.
She didn't know that I had seen her hips sway against another man’s thighs. She didn't know that I had seen the look of utter surrender on her face under those pulsing strobe lights while another man buried his face in the crook of her neck.
Before I could lock the phone, the screen shifted. A new caller ID flashed across the glass.
*Incoming Call: Amber.*
Amber. Maya’s ride-or-die best friend since college. The alibi. The one who had allegedly shared sheet masks, opened bottles of Pinot Noir, and cried over romantic comedies with Maya all weekend while I sat alone in our quiet living room, eating takeout and sending sweet texts telling her to enjoy her girls' night.
I stared at the name. A cold, dangerous clarity settled in my chest.
I swiped the green icon and brought the phone to my ear.
"Hello, Amber."
Silence hung on the line for three agonizing seconds, punctuated only by a sharp intake of breath.
"Logan?" Amber's voice was cautious, walking on eggshells. "Oh, thank God. Logan, where are you? Maya is having a complete nervous breakdown. She called me hysterically crying, saying you moved all your stuff out without saying a word. What the hell is going on?"
"You tell me, Amber," I said. My voice was eerily level, devoid of anger, devoid of inflection.
"What do you mean, I tell you? You just abandon your girlfriend of three years because of some miscommunication? People fight, Logan, but walking out like a coward? That's insane. You need to go back to the apartment right now."
"How was the wine, Amber?" I asked softly.
She paused. "What?"
"The wine. The Pinot Noir you two supposedly drank on Saturday night while you were doing face masks. How was it?"
The silence returned, heavier this time, suffocating. I could hear the faint sound of traffic in the background on her end.
"I… it was fine," she stammered, her defensive posture suddenly cracking. "Logan, don't change the subject—"
"Did you know she was in the Blue Ridge Mountains with her coworkers, Amber? Or did you just give her your stamp of approval so she could cheat on me while you covered her tracks?"
"She didn't—Logan, that's not—"
"I know she wasn't at your house," I cut in, ruthless in my quiet delivery. "I know about the retreat. And more importantly, I’ve seen the video from the dance floor."
Amber gasped. It was a genuine, visceral sound of shock. The defensive hostility drained out of her entirely, replaced by the hollow realization that the dam had broken and there was no rebuilding it.
"She… she told me it was just an innocent retreat," Amber whispered, her voice barely audible now. "She told me her boss pressured her to go for networking, and she didn't want you to feel insecure because there were a lot of executives there. She begged me to cover for her so you wouldn't get anxious. I swear to God, Logan, I didn't know she was… with someone. I swear I didn't."
"You helped her lie to me for three days, Amber."
"I was trying to help a friend avoid an argument!" she cried out, panic rising in her tone. "I didn't think she was doing anything wrong! Logan, please, she loves you. She made a mistake, she got drunk, but she loves you—"
"Do you know what self-respect is, Amber?" I asked, looking at my reflection in the dark television screen across from the bed. "Because I almost forgot what it felt like. But I remember now."
"Logan, wait—"
I pressed the red button and ended the call.
I didn't block Amber’s number. I didn't block Maya’s either. I wanted them to have access to the void. I wanted them to send their messages into the black hole of my silence, to feel the agonizing weight of unanswered pleas, the way I had felt the agonizing weight of their deception.
I stood up, walked over to the small desk, and opened my laptop.
May you like
There was work to be done. A life to rebuild from scratch, finances to separate, a lease to terminate. If she wanted drama, she would have to perform it on a stage by herself. I was officially out of the cast.
***
