Signing a document because the bank wanted an older, more stable name attached to it.
Transferring money when Chelsea said the timing was difficult.
I had called it love because the other word—fear—was harder to admit.
I had been afraid that if I stopped helping, my son would stop needing me.
By the time I returned to the furnished apartment I had rented in Irving, the sky was turning pale orange over the highway.
The place was clean, quiet, and temporary.
There were two chairs, a narrow sofa, a small table, and a bedroom with white walls.
Nothing in it belonged to a shared history.
That was why I liked it.
I set my keys on the counter and checked my phone.
There were seven missed calls.
Three from Logan.
Two from Chelsea.
One from a number I didn’t recognize.
The last was a voicemail from Logan, recorded at 9:17 that morning.
