What We Keep

I slammed the refrigerator door, my hands still trembling from the phone call. David wasn't coming back. Three years, and he'd decided he needed "space" to find himself. Typical.

The wilted spinach sat in my vegetable drawer, a forgotten promise of healthy meals we'd never make together. I'd bought it two days ago, when we still had plans. When we were still us.

The dog whined at my feet, her wet nose pressing against my ankle. Sarah had always been more his dog than mine, following him room to room like a shadow with fur. Now she looked at me with those soulful brown eyes, expecting me to make everything right. I couldn't even make dinner.

Running shoes sat by the door, laces still knotted from my morning ritual. Every day at six, rain or shine, I'd pound the pavement while David made coffee. It was our rhythm. Mine the movement, his the stillness. Now the apartment felt too small, too full of ghosts and his absurd collection of ceramic frogs.

I pushed past Sarah and fumbled with the deadbolt. Cool air hit me as I stumbled down the stairs, needing the motion. Running had always cleared my head, but tonight my sneakers slapped the pavement like accusations.

The boardwalk stretched ahead, moonlight rippling across the dark water. This was where I'd met Jamie—David's friend, my colleague, the person who'd listened to my complaints about David's distance with increasing frequency. The friend who'd made me question everything with late-night texts and careful questions about whether I was happy.

Jamie stood by the railing, watching waves break against the pilings. Not a coincidence. Never a coincidence with Jamie. The timing made my stomach twist—David leaves, and within hours, Jamie appears. Like clockwork. Or maybe I was just that predictable.

"You okay?" Jamie asked, voice low in the salt air.

"I don't know," I said. And that was the truth. It had been so long since I'd known anything for certain.

Jamie's hand brushed mine as we both reached for the railing. And didn't move away. The touch said everything David hadn't bothered to say in months.

"I'm sorry about David," Jamie said, but the words felt perfunctory, like checking a box.

"Are you?" I asked, turning to really look at my friend for the first time. What I saw made my breath catch—a hunger that matched my own, a restraint that was wearing thin.

"No," Jamie said honestly. "I'm not."

The water lapped against the pilings below, rhythmic and patient. Somewhere, a dog barked. The spinach was probably wilting further in my crisper drawer. David was gone.

And I was exactly where I needed to be.