I scroll back up.
Then down again.
Then up.
Like the dates might rearrange themselves if I stare hard enough.
Sophie says, “One month after you left.”
I say nothing.
“Then two months.”
Still nothing.
“And now three.”
I lean back in my chair.
“He owns a coastal house. He goes to the coastal house.”
“On the exact monthly anniversary?”
“He could have a schedule.”
Sophie laughs.
“A schedule?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
I open my mouth.
Close it again.
I have absolutely nothing.
She pounces immediately.
“Thought so.”
“You are stalking a hamster account with CSI levels of commitment.”
“And thank God I am, because apparently one of us needs to.”
I stare at the newest photo again.
Heath and the stupid little cake.
Three months.
Three months of surviving this tenancy arrangement.
My chest feels odd.
Not bad.
