It was a little thing, like a pebble in your shoe. Sometimes you knew it was there and sometimes it moved out of the way of your toes and you forgot. That was Petra and her presence in our lives. A lingering uncertainty in my mind and possibly David’s.

David got depressed. I called it the deep sleep. Not to him, but that’s how it was in my mind. It wasn’t often, but it was powerful, and during our year together I learned how to watch for signs of its approach. I didn’t know how to manage him when he was like that. There was no manual, no website that gave firm answers. Be supportive, they said. Depression is chemical, and you can’t just expect them to snap out of it. I felt inadequate, like anything I said or did wouldn’t be enough. I touched him so he knew I was there, and I fed him because I was afraid he would forget to eat. He wouldn’t talk to me when he was like that, but occasionally when I was walking by he’d grab onto my hips and bury his face in my stomach. I’d drop whatever I was holding, a laundry basket, a roll of paper towels, and hold onto his head. I tried to talk to him even if he didn’t return the words. Just nonsense about TV shows or customers that came into the bar. The more nonsense I spoke, the shallower I felt. I wasn’t saying anything to help him—I was just trying to fill the silence.

I’d watch him from the kitchen, sitting in the chair by the window, knowing that I didn’t understand his depression. And maybe it wasn’t for me to understand; humans always want to fix things. Sure, I got the blues like everyone else, but this was something more. To David, depression was a tidal wave, not something that could be fixed with a new day and perspective.

I was in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner when someone rang the doorbell. I peeked around the corner just as David opened the door. He was shirtless and in his sweats, a Seahawks hat backward on his head. I had a brief thought about how comical it would be if I opened the door that way, just as I dipped the last plate into the soapy water. I felt somewhat accomplished tonight. My risotto had made David feel something. He’d said it was the best he ever had. I dried my hands on a dishtowel and stepped into the living room. It was Ferdinand. I was glad he came. David did better when he was around. I stopped short as I rounded the corner. Ferdinand wasn’t alone…with him were Petra and a girl I didn’t recognize, though she seemed to recognize me. I watched her exchange a look with Petra and I had the feeling I’d been the topic of one of their conversations.

“Yara,” David said. “Look who came to see us.”

I glanced at Ferdinand who ducked his head, apologetic. He was one of the few people who knew how I felt about her.

Petra waved sheepishly as her friend looked on stony-faced.

“Drinks,” I said, clapping my hands. David winked at me, which caused a flurry of butterflies to erupt in my belly. Yes, yes, yes! I wanted to say. Come back to me.

I went to the kitchen to fetch a bottle, the smile dropping from my face as soon as I was around the corner. I was wrong. I had no reason to dislike these people. My insecurities would push David away. I needed to put them away.

When I came back in carrying a bottle of wine, they were all sitting around the living room talking. David was animated, his smile contagious as he took the bottle and wine opener from me and got to work opening it.

“I’m not as good at this as Yara,” he joked, and I bent down to kiss his head.

I went to get the glasses, glancing at Petra and her friend who were on the couch sitting in the place where David and I most often made love. It felt like sacrilege to seat them there. David and Ferdinand had pulled up chairs from the table we’d recently chosen together. When I walked back with the glasses, David jumped up to help me. He’d put on a shirt, but the damage was already done, an image engraved in their minds. I’d prefer they not know what’s under my boyfriend’s shirt. I’d prefer they wonder. Once you got the image of shirtless David in your head, it was hard to get it out.

I watched the girls suspiciously, over the rim of my wineglass, looking for signs of adoration. Of course, they adored him, who didn’t? He was the type of person everyone wanted to be around. I got another bottle from the kitchen and poured more wine, smiled. David was smiling too. I wondered if it was genuine or if he was faking like me. Everyone smiling like we weren’t all dying of our loneliness. David and I were less lonely because we’d found each other, but there were wolves like Petra who wanted to take.

In university, there’d been a girl in my Psychology 101 class who’d given us a lecture on men versus women. “If a man introduces his male friend to his extraordinary new girlfriend, his friend will think—I want a girl like that. If a woman introduces her new boyfriend to her female friend, the friend will not think—I want a man like that, but rather, I want that very man.” I’d never put much stock into what she said, after all, I had never coveted a friend’s boyfriend, but here I was watching as Petra listened with rapt attention to every word that dripped from his mouth.

Drip

Drip

Drip

David was talking to her, as the rest of us sat and listened. She asked about his process. Such a cheap way to get an artist going. Everyone knew that if you asked an artist about their process, they’d oblige and quite happily. It’s like she knew without knowing. I watched them and my stomach rolled. Were they leaning toward each other or was it in my head?

He sat in front of one of the large bay windows, a silhouette against the dying light, giving his expertise.

“And when sudden inspiration comes does the depression lift?” Petra asked.

“Not always, but sometimes it’s enough.”

“Do you have a muse?” There was quiet in the room as he turned to look at me. And then all of my uncertainty dropped away. It was just David and me in the room when he looked at me like that.

“I do,” he said, not taking his eyes from me. He smiled and despite the jealousy I was feeling, my lips curled upward. A sweet token of ownership on both our parts.

“What is it about Yara that inspires you?” Petra asked.

There was a genuine curiosity in her voice. That’s not what bothered me, what bothered me was her motive for asking the question.

“Just look at her,” David said.

All eyes turned to look at me, but it was David’s I focused on. Heat in my belly. He looked like my David, not the shell of a human he’d been these last weeks. We were okay. I felt like I could breathe.

Petra moved onto something else seamlessly, steering the subject away from me and onto something new. That’s when I realized the type of woman she was. She tested for weak spots and took notes. She was unfazed, undeterred.

We finished the second bottle and Petra’s friend, Kelsey, offered to run down to the store and grab another. The thought of having to spend more time with them, a fake smile plastered across my face, made me feel ill. David must have seen the panic in my eyes.

“Maybe another time,” he said, looking at me. “Yara and I have plans to meet up with some friends for drinks.” He said each word meticulously. That’s how it was when he lied—like each syllable, each letter, was more convincing if spoken with perfect emphasis.

A lie. I was grateful for it.

I nodded at them apologetically and they all stood at once.

I bid them farewell while David saw them to the door. It hadn’t even crossed my mind yet that Petra now knew where we lived.

When they were gone, David pulled me against his chest and kissed the top of my head as I cried.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, over and over. “Yara, I’m so sorry. I’m back.”

I didn’t believe him. He left me without warning and with ease. It was like he was stuck in a soundproof room and no amount of effort on my part could free him. Even as he held me I was afraid it would come again. And what would I do next time if Petra wasn’t there to help me?