She’d pursued him relentlessly, then dumped him and left for Washington, DC, where she took a job at a health policy think tank.
Why had she returned? Why had he agreed to see her?
Ryan had been so honest and vulnerable when he’d told me about how she’d broken his heart. Life had broken my heart too, which made me sympathetic toward him. And made me feel, all the more, as if I could trust him. He wouldn’t break my heart the way Amber had broken his—I was sure of it.
Or at least I had been.
Eventually, I forced myself to stop texting and leaving voicemails, knowing I sounded as desperate as I felt. I needed to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Amber had come back for the holidays and decided to take the opportunity to apologize to Ryan for how she’d treated him. And maybe he thought seeing her would be freeing before he and I married. Perhaps there was some other reason. Surely he would call any minute and explain what had happened—even thank me for being understanding.
At some point, I fell asleep on the couch, under the baby blue afghan Mammi Mast had crocheted for me years ago. I awoke just after five in the morning and checked my phone, expecting to see a text from Ryan sent hours before. There was nothing.
A garbage truck rumbled by on the street below. I’d planned to move most of my things to Ryan’s condo in South Beach today and then the rest into storage when my lease was up, right after we returned from our honeymoon. Should I still plan on doing that?
Unable to fall back asleep, I grabbed my warmest coat, stuffed my phone into my pocket, slipped into my sheepskin boots, and headed out for a cup of coffee. The sky was dark, without a single star shining, but the glow from the coffee shop was like a lighthouse on the edge of the sea. I’d planned to grab a cup and head back to my apartment, but instead I slumped into a chair and checked my phone again.
It wasn’t as if Ryan would call or text me now. He wasn’t a morning person, especially not on a Saturday. Perhaps it was my dad’s work ethic, an essential part of who he was from being raised on an Amish farm, but I grew up thinking that sleeping in was for sloths.
That wasn’t the only difference between Ryan and me. I jumped in to help whenever we were guests in someone’s home, while he was fine being waited on. I could clean up a mess in minutes, while he’d simply stare at it. I was frugal; he was a spender. He had to eat at all of the latest restaurants in town. I was fine cooking at home. In fact, I could do more than cook—I could preserve food, sew, and live on a budget. Both my Mammi Mast and my mom had taught me well. Mom had been a hippie midwife, which, surprisingly, ended up having a lot in common with an Amish grandmother.
Ryan found my domestic skills “sweet” and “comforting,” which made me feel as if I was the opposite of Amber’s sophistication. Now I feared that’s what he valued more.
I checked my phone again. Nothing.
If it wasn’t so early in the morning, I might have called or texted his mom. Not to bring her into our drama, but to make sure everything was fine with Ryan. Both of his parents had been kind to me, but I’d especially bonded with his mother, Nita, even though I’d only spent a handful of time with her—the previous Christmas, when Ryan asked me to marry him, and then in the summer when she came up to San Francisco to help with wedding planning. She seemed especially sympathetic to the fact that my mother had died when I was a teenager.
But what would I say to Nita now? Ask if she knew what Ryan was up to? He got along with his parents, but they weren’t particularly close. If I did contact his mom, it would probably come across as if I were tattling on him.
I tried to calm my jagged nerves with a sip of coffee, but my heart only raced faster. Caffeine probably wasn’t the best idea. My thoughts began to fly as fast as my pulse. Perhaps Ryan had been hurt. Maybe he was in an ER somewhere. Maybe Amber had done something to him out of spite, even though she’d broken up with him.
I felt utterly helpless sitting in the coffee shop at 5:30, all alone. What would my mother tell me to do if she were alive?
Move!
I reached my hand into my pocket and felt my key ring. I had a key to Ryan’s condo. Why hadn’t I marched over there and thrown open the door the night before?
I’d do it now.
I’d sold my car the week before, so I ordered a ride-share. Thankfully, my driver wasn’t the chatty type and didn’t ask any questions. I kept my eyes on the water as we crossed the Bay. For someone who grew up in the hinterland of Northern California and spent summers in Indiana, the Bay enchanted me. I never tired of watching the water.
Once we reached San Francisco, the driver quickly maneuvered along the narrow streets and then double-parked in front of Ryan’s condo. I thanked him and jumped out quickly, glancing at Ryan’s bedroom window. The light was off.
Fearing I’d lose my nerve, I marched up the front steps and unlocked his door. The alarm was off, which didn’t mean anything. He often forgot to set it.
As I turned on the lights, I noted that nothing seemed out of order. I
