Page 60 of What You left in Me

Blue bubbles. Gray bubbles. Dates and times. A pace that reads like habit. Not a flood. A steady drip.

Julian:Can’t today. Meetings. You’re trouble.

Sunshine:You like trouble :)

Julian:Don’t ask questions. It’s easier that way.

Sunshine:You looked so good in navy yesterday. Couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Julian:You looked incredible in red. Still thinking about the elevator.

I press my lips together because if I don’t, I’ll either laugh or throw up. We were in an elevator yesterday. He stood next to me and offered a tissue to a stranger. He told a volunteer her pin was elegant. He squeezed my shoulder when the doors opened, and my mother looked small for the first time in a decade. And here, parallel to that. This.

I go to the next screenshot, slowly. I don’t have to go far. The pattern shows itself.

Sunshine:Delete this.

Julian:You worry too much.

Sunshine:When can I see you?

Julian:Key at the desk. 314 again. Don’t be late.

There’s even a photo: a key card on a marble table, corner of a pen, the kind of stationary every luxury hotel pretends is unique. The number scrawled on a sticky note. My vision blurs, narrows, comes back meaner.

Julian:You know you’re lucky I can make time. Don’t push it.

Then the thing that sticks like a burr:Sunshine.He writes it once, then again. He doesn’t write my name like that. He has never tried a pet name with me beyond the standard and the silly. He respects that about me. Or he thought I didn’t want one. Or he saved them for… this.

The pump clicks off. His silhouette passes the headlights. He heads for the store, probably to get my mint and the idea of control.

My hands shake. I slide the message thread closed. The file icon remains, quiet and damning. My chest tightens against my ribs, and I breathe through it. Not here. Not yet. Please, body. Later.

Before I can stop myself, I reach for the phone sitting on the console, practically begging to be unlocked, and punch in the code. It doesn’t open. My heart stutters, and I set it back down before I lose my grip and hurl it at Julian.

He comes back with water and a paper sleeve of mints and a look that says he was thinking about the list for my mother’s meds while the clerk took forty years to count change.

“They had the terrible ones,” he says, apologetic. “But they’re mint-adjacent.”

“Thank you,” I manage.

He starts the car again and checks my face. He really looks, eyes flicker over my mouth, my hands, the way I’m sitting. “Hey,” he says. “We’re almost home.”

“Good,” I say, and that tiny word holds too much.

He merges, signals, drives the way instructors dream about at night. The phone in the console vibrates again. He doesn’t glance down. Good boy. Of course. Gold star.

“Did you change your phone lock?” I ask, as if we’re discussing a podcast.

“What?” He keeps his gaze on the road, just a quick side look.

“Your phone,” I say, lighter than I feel. “Did you change the code?”

“Oh.” He frowns at the windshield. “Yeah. Face ID was glitching last week. I turned it off and changed the code. I’ll fix it when I get home. I didn’t even think about it.”

I stare at him and try to reconcile this man, warm water bottle bringer, tea watcher, porch light checker, with the text that says room 314 like a command. He reaches across the console and squeezes my fingers. His palm is warm. The gesture is easy and kind. It feels borrowed from a different life.

“We’ll get Eleanor settled,” he says. “I’ll take the first shift with her meds.”