Chapter 8
The apartment had settled into the shape I'd promised to keep. Her coffee mug still on the counter. Her sweater still over the back of my chair. I didn't move any of it. I told myself that was the point.
My phone was on the kitchen counter where I could see it. It lit up just after nine my time.
Amber: Landed safe. Exhausted. Will call tomorrow.
I stared at that period after tomorrow. On the terrace she hadn't used periods. She'd let sentences run and break. Her mouth had stayed open a half second after she finished talking, like she wasn't done breathing the words. Now it was three short sentences. Edited.
I typed back, you good? and deleted it. Typed glad you landed safe. How was the flight? Sent it. Watched the delivered turn to read. No dots.
An hour later a voice note came. Six seconds.
"Hey. Sorry I'm wiped. Talk in the morning, okay?"
Her voice was flat. Not cold, just leveled out. The terrace in her voice was gone. No tears, no catch in her throat. I played it twice, then a third time with the phone to my ear like that would bring back the micro-expressions I couldn't see anymore.
The next morning I was up early. I made coffee for two out of habit and then poured hers out. Her text came at noon her time, midnight mine. I was still awake.
Amber: Day was nonstop. So much to catch up on. Hope you're sleeping okay.
I read it three times. So much to catch up on. It sounded like a line for someone else, someone who needed a reason not to talk. I wanted to answer with the thing I'd been turning over since she left, the way I'd felt the apartment go quiet in a different way without her. Instead I wrote back, sleep's weird without you. You sound busy.
She sent back: haha yeah its crazy here. miss u.
No capital letters. No punctuation except the period I imagined she didn't mean to add. On the terrace she'd said every word like it cost her something. Now miss u looked like it took half a second.
I told myself I was reading too much into text. People text differently when they're tired, when they're walking between meetings, when they're on a different schedule. I knew that. But I kept scrolling up to the terrace night in my head and comparing it to these bubbles on my screen and they didn't match. The woman who had looked up at me with tears still on her cheeks didn't text like haha yeah.
That afternoon I called without warning. She picked up on the fourth ring.
"Hey," she said. Background noise on her end, a street, voices.
"Hey," I said. "You got a minute?"
"Kind of in between things," she said. "What's up?"
What's up. I hadn't heard her say that before. I stood in my kitchen looking at her sweater on my chair.
"Nothing," I said. "Just wanted to hear your voice."
A pause. Then, "That's sweet. I'm sorry, today is just packed."
"I can tell," I said, and hated how that sounded. Like an accusation.
"It's not like that," she said quickly. "I just — I don't have good service in this building."
Another short sentence. Another reason. On the terrace she hadn't given reasons. She'd just said what was true.
"Okay," I said. "Text me when you're free."
"I will," she said. "Promise."
We hung up and I stood there with the phone warm in my hand. I thought about what I'd said that night about home. I didn't say it again out loud. I just thought about how I'd meant it as a fact about Monaco, but really it had been a fact about her. And now I was trying to hear that same truth in texts that felt typed with one thumb while walking.
Later she sent a photo. A street, a building I'd never seen, gray sky. Caption: view from lunch.
I zoomed in. Looked for her reflection in a window, for anything that told me more than the words. There was nothing. Just the street.
I typed, wish I was there for lunch. Deleted it. Typed, looks cold there. Sent it.
She replied: lol it is. Miss the terrace.
Miss the terrace. Not miss you. Miss the place. I felt something tighten in my chest and told myself to stop keeping score. She was tired. She was adjusting. Text was just text. It wasn't built to carry the kind of breathing we'd done on that terrace, the way we'd held eye contact until it hurt.
By eight that night I had three drafts in my notes app I hadn't sent. Each one tried to ask are we okay without sounding like I thought we weren't okay. Each one sounded worse than the last.
I went to the balcony and looked out at the marina lights. Same bokeh we'd had behind us that night. Only now the terrace bar was empty and the railing was quiet. I took a breath and hit call again, but this time I didn't press call. I pressed the camera icon and held it.
Then I typed a different message.
Can we do video tonight? Just for a few minutes. I want to actually see you, not just text.
May you like
I stared at the message before I sent it. My thumb hovered. Sending it felt like admitting that text wasn't enough and that I'd been misreading her all day because I couldn't see her face.
I sent it anyway. The delivered checkmark appeared. I put the phone down on the counter and didn't pick it up again until it buzzed.
