I looked toward the phone again, and the dark screen seemed suddenly heavier than any accusation.
Twenty missed calls, she had said, while I had been in the air, pleased with my surprise.
I wanted to tell her I had come early because I loved her, but the words felt useless now.
Instead, I reached for her phone with shaking fingers and turned it over.
The screen lit up.
Her call history filled the glass like evidence against me.
My name, repeated again and again, each attempt marked by a time I had not been there.
There were also two calls to the emergency line, both short, too short, both ending before anyone could help.
“I couldn’t speak,” she murmured, following my eyes. “I panicked. Then I thought maybe I was exaggerating.”
That sentence hurt me in a way I did not deserve to be hurt.
Because while she had been afraid of exaggerating, I had stood over her inventing betrayal.
I swallowed hard and helped her sit up, but she cried out and grabbed my arm.
