Back then Yara cared more about Petra than I did. I thought her fixation would stop after we were married. But I think Petra is ultimately why she left. Or maybe I just need a reason to understand why she left and that’s the one I chose.

“Do you think she’s pretty?” she’d ask.

I did.

“Yes.”

“Do you think she’s into you?”

I did.

“Yes.”

“Do you think she understands you better than I can?”

I did not.

“No.”

“Why are you asking me these things, English?”

“Because I know you’ll tell the truth.”

She was right. It was hard for me not to tell the truth and she used that against me. Sometimes it felt like she was building a case with my truth. I started being an omission kind of guy, to field off Yara’s truth searching. I told myself I was protecting our relationship. For the first six weeks after we were married I was happy. Yara seemed happy too. She took to baking, which I’d never seen her do before. When I asked her about it, she blushed and said baking was what you were supposed to do when married.

“I think that was in the nineteen fifties.” I laughed.

Yara waved a spatula at me. “So what do we do now then?”

I came up behind her and kissed her neck. “We fuck,” I said. “It’s the new baking.”

She threw her arms around my neck, still holding the spatula. I felt cake batter drip down my neck as she kissed me.

“Good,” she said when she pulled away. “I hate baking, it’s such a fucking bore.”

I saw Petra a few weeks after Yara and I were married. I was at Ferdinand’s house with a couple other people watching a Seahawks game. Yara was working the nightshift at the restaurant. I’d forgotten about the text until she walked in, and then I felt guilty. I’d deleted it so my wife wouldn’t see—or rather so she’d not have a reason to be angry with me.

I was sitting on Ferdinand’s couch between Brick and a guy Ferdinand grew up with named Erick. When Erick went to the kitchen to grab another beer, Petra took his spot next to me.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Sorry about that text,” she said, ducking her head. “I was drunk.”

“Drunk texting is never good,” I said. I was trying to make things light, but she nodded somberly and looked down at her hands.

“I know. One of my friends took my phone from me before I could send another.” She laughed and I smiled stiffly wishing the game would come back on and give me an excuse to end the conversation.

“The truth is I needed to say this in person.” She cleared her throat and looked around nervously. I did too. The guys were all in the kitchen with their beer waiting out the commercials.

“I…uh…well, I am in love with you, David,” she said. “I know you’re married, and I know this must be awkward, but I needed to tell you.”

I stared at her. Why did this feel like a set up?

“Why did you need to tell me?” I asked.

Petra looked stricken. She opened and closed her mouth and then glanced over her shoulder to see where everyone else was.

“I thought you should know,” she stammered.

“I’m in love with Yara. I’m married to Yara. Why would I need to know that?”

It looked like she wanted to cry. I softened my tone. “Petra, I’m with Yara.”

She stood up abruptly and nodded her head. “I see,” she said. “I just thought…”

“You thought wrong,” I said firmly.

She left before I could say anything else. Ferdinand came over as soon as she was gone.

“What was that about, man?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Listen, I’m going to take off. I think I’ll stop at The Jane so I can see Yara.”

He nodded still looking at the door.

I needed to touch her. See her face. She’d been right about Petra—even though she’d never come out and directly accused her—she’d acted suspicious of her since they’d met. Female intuition, my mother always said, was never wrong.

When I walked into The Jane I didn’t get the welcome I was expecting. Yara spotted me right away, but instead of greeting me, she turned her back and walked toward the kitchen. I grabbed the only available bar stool, telling myself it was busy and she hadn’t meant it. I waited for her to come back, my unease climbing by the minute. When she finally emerged around the corner, she was carrying a tray of food and wouldn’t look at me. This wasn’t like her. No matter where we were, we caught eyes. I always found her from the stage when she was at one of our shows.

“Yara,” I said when she walked back around the bar. She grabbed a glass and glanced over at me while she poured a beer.

“You seen Instagram?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well, I have.”

I opened the app and there it was, the first picture that popped up was a group pic Brick had posted thirty minutes ago, right after I left. I hadn’t even realized someone had taken a picture. Petra was sitting next to me on the couch and she must have just said something because we were looking at each other. I ran a hand over my face and glanced at Yara, who was leaning over the bar talking to a customer. She pointed something out on the menu and then turned her head to look at me. I could see the hurt in her eyes. I tried to see the picture as she saw it: Petra in very short shorts, leaning toward me in what looked like intimate conversation, one shoulder exposed when her shirt slipped down. My mouth was slightly open as I said something to her. It looked like we were having a grand ol’ time instead of how uncomfortable the situation actually was.

I stayed until the game was over and the bar cleared out. Yara still hadn’t come over and I didn’t entirely blame her.

Understanding comes with knowledge. Knowledge comes with time. I tell myself that in time Petra will do for me what Yara did. Fill the void, consume me with her quirks, and love will override the doubts.

She does not. But that’s my fault, not Petra’s. It’s not true what they say, that you can only give your heart away once. That’s the philosophy of the young. The old know better, they know it’s not the heart that you give away, but the mind. Fuck…shit…the mind is a powerful thing. It controls the heart, but most people don’t know that.

I have to find her.