Chapter 2

Eventually I found out: that number was his ex-girlfriend Hector's birthday.

And on my own birthday, he stumbled home in the middle of the night reeking of alcohol.

"Sorry, work thing ran late tonight. Forgot it was your birthday."

While he was in the shower, I saw his phone light up.

A message from Hector's mom:

Thank you so much for coming to Hector's birthday party. She had the best time.

I let out a cold laugh.

Every lock in this house needed to be changed.

1.

My phone buzzed. A voice message from Ellis.

"Joel! Happy birthday! What did your husband get you? Spill everything!"

I stared at that 59-second voice message for a while.

I typed back: All good, I'll tell you tomorrow.

Sent it, then flipped my phone face-down on the kitchen counter.

The shower turned off. The blow dryer hummed from the bedroom.

I picked up my phone and read the message again.

Rodriguez — thank you so much for coming to Hector's birthday party tonight. She was so happy. — Hector's Mom.

I turned off the living room lights and went upstairs.

Rodriguez was propped up against the headboard scrolling through his phone, hair still damp, blanket pulled up halfway.

My instinct was to grab a towel for him. My hand touched the edge of the bed. I stopped.

I sat down beside him. "Rodriguez."

"Mm."

"Today is my birthday."

His finger paused on the screen. "I know. Didn't I say I'd make it up to you?"

He hadn't said that. I remembered clearly.

"You never said that."

"Well, I'm saying it now. I'll take you somewhere nice this weekend."

"You went to Hector's birthday party today."

He locked his screen and turned to look at me, brow furrowing.

"Her mom called three times. I've known their family for over ten years. I couldn't just blow them off."

"You could've come home for dinner first and gone after."

"Do you know what time it is? You were already asleep."

"I wasn't asleep. I had four dishes on the table from six o'clock to eleven. I was waiting for you the whole time."

He didn't respond to that. A few seconds passed, then: "Okay. I get it. I'll make it up to you next week."

I watched his phone screen light up again.

"All your passwords are 0912."

"I told you, I just typed something easy to remember."

"My birthday is September twelfth."

His finger went still on the screen. The second hand on the wall clock in the living room ticked through several beats.

"Well then that works out perfectly — it's the same day. It's not like I don't know that."

"You know. But you went to celebrate hers. You didn't come home to celebrate mine."

Rodriguez set his phone down on the nightstand with a sharp thud.

"Joel, what do you actually want from me? You're going to keep bringing up one birthday? I said I'd make it up to you — what more do you want?"

I looked at him for a moment. The crease between his brows was deep, like he'd been putting up with me for a long time.

I didn't say anything else. I turned off the light, lay down, and turned my back to him.

He rolled over. Two minutes later, his breathing was steady.

I lay there in the dark with my eyes open, completely still, counting to a hundred and twenty.

Then I picked up my phone, turned the brightness all the way down, opened the browser, and searched for nearby rentals.

I scrolled for twenty minutes and saved three listings.

Then I went to my contacts and found a number I'd saved last month.

Osman. Attorney.

Too late to call. I'd do it tomorrow. I put the phone down and closed my eyes.

Every lock in this house still had the same set of numbers.

It's the same day, he'd said. It's not like I don't know.

But when two women share a birthday, he only remembered to celebrate one of them.

The next morning when I came downstairs, he was already putting on his shoes. "Running late."

He pulled the door open. The lock screen flashed.

"Wait — you said you'd make it up to me. When?"

"Saturday, maybe. I'll book somewhere."

"Not French food. I won't eat it."

He glanced at me. "Fine."

The door closed. The lock screen glowed for two more seconds.

I called Attorney Osman and made an appointment — tomorrow at three in the afternoon.

He told me to bring the property deed, the marriage certificate, and bank statements.

I texted Ellis: Are you free the day after tomorrow? I need to see you.

Ellis messaged back immediately with a string of questions. I replied: I'll explain in person.

I sat down at the kitchen table and drank a glass of water. At the bottom of the glass, barely visible, was a faded letter — H.

I looked at it for a moment. Then I put the glass back, grabbed my bag, and went to work.

2.

Attorney Osman flipped through the documents and jotted a few notes.

"Ms. Joel, I'll be direct with you. From a financial standpoint, this marriage offers you very little protection."

"Are you certain you want to proceed with a divorce?"

"Yes."

"If this goes to litigation, we'll need evidence of irretrievable breakdown. Would you be comfortable sharing the grounds?"

I thought for a few seconds.

"Every password in our home is his ex-girlfriend's birthday. The door lock, the WiFi, the safe, his phone, payment accounts — all 0912."

Attorney Osman looked up. "How long has this been going on?"

"Three years. From the first day we moved in."

"Did you ever bring it up with him?"

"Twice. He said it was just easy to remember, and that I was being too sensitive."

Attorney Osman drew a line across his notepad.

"Good. I'll have a preliminary draft of the agreement to you within three to five business days."

"Thank you."

I left the office at four in the afternoon.

I walked past a bakery. There was a small cake in the display case, nine dollars and ninety-nine cents, with a single thin candle on top.

I looked at it for a few seconds. I didn't buy it.

When I got home, Rodriguez wasn't back yet.

I changed into my slippers and stood in the middle of the living room. For the first time, I really looked at this place.

The sofa was dark gray. I liked warm tones.

The curtains were cool white. I liked linen.

The bookshelf had a row of French novels, never opened. I didn't read French.

When we moved in, the whole apartment was already furnished. Rodriguez said there was no point redoing everything.

I knelt down and pulled the safe out from under the bed. Typed in 0912.

It clicked open. Inside: the marriage certificate, the property deed, a few insurance documents.

And at the very bottom, pressed down under everything else, a small black jewelry box.

I took it out and opened it.

A silver ring. On the inner band, engraved in small letters: 0912.

Our wedding rings, Rodriguez kept off his finger and on the nightstand year-round.

But this ring was in the safe. Locked away. Buried at the bottom.

I closed the box, put it back, shut the safe, and pushed it back under the bed.

I opened Rodriguez's side of the closet. In the far corner was a canvas tote bag.

I unzipped it. Inside: a stack of postcards and a few letters.

The top postcard had neat, delicate handwriting. Rodriguez — Paris is beautiful. Come back with me next time.

Signed with a single letter: H.

I went through them one by one. Paris. London. Iceland.

Every one signed the same: H.

The last postmark was four years ago. They'd broken up five years back.

He hadn't thrown out a single one.

I put them back in order, zipped the bag, and pushed it into the corner of the closet.

Ellis had sent another voice message. Answer me or you're not sleeping tonight.

I typed back: The safe password is 0912. There's a ring inside. His ex's name and birthday, engraved on the band.

Ellis replied with a voice message. "What the actual fk."