Chapter 7: My Sister Kept Her Phone Face Down While I Talked
I drove to my sister's apartment with tote on passenger seat and sticky note burning hole in it. I hadn't texted Derek back. Phone buzzed twice more before I silenced it. My hands stayed tight on wheel, knuckles white over gray plastic, and light blue mini skirt stuck to thighs in heat.
Jenna opened door in socks, hair still damp from shower, apartment smelling like laundry detergent and coffee. She saw my face and stepped aside without question.
"You look like you haven't breathed," she said.
I dropped tote on her couch, arms crossed before I realized I was doing it again. Same stance as kitchen island. Protective, closed.
"He lied about gym," I said. "Staff said he wasn't there. Lot empty. He finally admitted it."
Jenna closed door, leaned against it. "Okay. What did he say instead?"
I pulled sticky note from tote, unfolded white towel memory still fresh in mind though towel stayed home on marble island. Number stared up at me, ten digits, local area code.
"He said lot full, then said he sat in parking lot and talked on phone, then drove gas station loop. Twenty-eight miles on odometer. No receipt. Two calls, eleven minutes and four minutes, same number, gap from seven twelve to nine oh three with no location."
Jenna took note, frowned. "That's not gym trip. That's errand with secret."
I sat down hard, pendant necklace swinging, still sweating though apartment AC blew cold.
"I checked his phone," I said. "He slid it to me. Like dare. I looked. Location gap, calls. I thought I'd feel better knowing something. I feel worse."
She sat beside me, knees touching mine, voice low.
"You did right checking," she said. "You asked, he lied, you verified. That's not checking too closely."
I stared at floor, wood floor like kitchen floor at home, but scuffed, older.
"He asked why I was checking everything so closely," I said. "Exact words from kitchen. Like I was problem."
Jenna's mouth tightened.
"That's deflection," she said. "Classic."
I told her about bottle on island, gray flip lid half-filled, black smartphone face down, folded white towel beside it. Details anchor. She listened without interrupting, which I needed. Breath hitched before I spoke again.
"Should I call number?" I asked.
Jenna shook head immediately. "Not yet. Not alone. Document first. Then decide confrontation together."
I felt tears finally, hot, not melodramatic, just slow leak. She handed me tissue, no fuss.
"Stay for dinner?" she asked.
I nodded, but my mind already ran ahead to receipts, timeline, daylight fading outside her window.
Jenna stood, pulled laptop from counter.
"Want help building timeline before you go home?" she asked. "Write it down while fresh, before he edits story again."
I wiped eyes, pulled phone from tote, opened notes app with shaky thumb.
"Yes," I said. "Help me remember exact."
We started list, her hand on my shoulder, steady pressure, and kitchen confrontation replayed again, but now with witness.
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By time I left, sticky note copied into phone and notebook both, and tote felt heavier with decision to keep tracking, not to pretend.
Derek texted again when I reached parking lot: "We need talk tonight." I didn't answer yet. I started car, backed out slow, and drove home toward cold marble island waiting.
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