Chapter 4

"Working late tonight, won't make it over."

Carter’s iMessage voice memo was short. The background noise sounded like an office.

I replied with a simple, "Okay."

Then, I did something I had never done before—I followed him.

His car pulled out of his office garage, but he didn't head toward his usual route. He turned left and stopped in front of a quiet, older apartment complex in the suburbs.

I parked across the street and turned off the ignition.

A warm yellow light was on on the third floor. The curtains had a floral pattern, and a potted ivy sat on the windowsill.

He carried two grocery bags upstairs. His steps were light. When he reached the door, he didn't knock; he used his own key to open it.

That door didn't require any ceremony for him because that was his real home.

I stood downstairs for twenty minutes. The window on the third floor cast two silhouettes—one stirring something at the stove, the other sitting by the table with a hand on her belly. The one at the stove brought over a plate, sat down, and turned to say something.

Both shadows were laughing.

It wasn't the secretive, tense laughter of an affair. It was just cooking, eating, talking, and laughing. A complete, mundane family routine.

I was the outsider.

When I walked down, I passed the mailboxes on the ground floor. The label for Unit 301 had two names written side-by-side in the same handwriting: "Carter Davis & Audrey Pearson."

In this apartment complex, they were an open couple. Only in front of me did this reality cease to exist.

Back at my apartment, I took out the cherries Carter had brought over last week from the fridge. I washed a few and took a bite. They were sweet. I ate another one, still sweet.

But I didn't want to eat them anymore.

Because in Audrey’s chat logs, she had written: "Babe brought home so many cherries today, we can't even finish them."

He had bought two batches from the same store.

I threw the rest of the cherries into the trash.

I opened my laptop and created a new Excel sheet. On the left column, I wrote "Me & Carter." On the right column, "Carter & Audrey." I charted the dates precisely.

For nine months, the two timelines ran in perfect parallel. Not a single day was missed.

One date was highlighted in red: four months ago. My birthday.

Carter had given me a necklace, took me out for sushi, and posted a picture of us smiling on Instagram. But on that very day, Audrey's log showed he had accompanied her to her first major ultrasound at 3:00 PM.

On my birthday, he went to see his unborn child first before coming over to blow out my candles.

I recalled him being forty minutes late that night. When he walked in, his scarf smelled faintly of disinfectant.

I had asked him about it, and he said he had stopped by a pharmacy to grab some cold medicine for a colleague.

And I had believed him.

Every time I trusted him, I was just signing off on my own stupidity.

I scrolled to another date from two months ago. He had told me he was going on a three-day business trip. He sent me a selfie from a hotel room, writing, "Miss you, sleep tight."

But Audrey’s records showed he was in another state during those three days, meeting her parents.

Audrey had posted a group photo. Carter was sitting at a round dining table, and the middle-aged couple opposite him were beaming. Her caption was: "Mom and Dad finally met you. Mom says you're even handsomer in person."

He had met the parents on both sides. Both lines were moving forward.

I closed my laptop, picked up my phone, and texted him: "The photos from Saturday are ready. Which ones do you want to select for the final edits?"

Carter replied instantly: "You choose. I trust your taste."

He always knew the right thing to say.

Always.

I selected a photo of the two of us facing away from the camera—our faces completely obscured. I sent that one to the studio for final editing.