It’s so early when I pull up to Harper’s house on Monday that the sun has barely made an appearance, yet it’s already warm. I climb out of the car, grabbing my bag with the weekend’s clothes shoved inside haphazardly, and jolt to a halt as if I’ve hit a glass wall.

There, on Harper’s steps, sits Rob.

I’m so stunned that I say nothing, just stand there staring, holding my weekend bag, undoubtedly looking exactly like I feel: as if I’ve been caught red-handed.

It went without saying that if we broke up there’d be other people. I never doubted for a minute that he’d take Christina up on her generous offers, if he hadn’t already. But seeing me stroll in at 5 AM is the equivalent of having it said aloud.

I’ve never seen Rob’s face as long as it is right now, and he doesn’t even know the worst part.

“I guess I don’t have to ask if there’s someone else,” he says.

There’s nothing accusatory in his voice. He’s just upset, which is so much worse.

“I…didn’t know you were here,” I reply lamely. “Have you been waiting long?”

“I came here straight from the airport last night.”

That shouldn’t make me feel guilty—I didn’t ask him to do it, and I didn’t know he was here—but I feel guilty anyway. Especially when I consider what I was doing during those hours.

“I thought you had six more weeks there.”

“I did,” he says. “But I wanted to see you.”

He stands, looking thinner and less sure of himself than he did before he left, and I'm struck by an intense wave of familiarity, homesickness. There are parts of our life that I miss, and seeing him reminds me of all of them at once. I could have been happier when we were together, but I also wasn't unhappy.

He wraps me in his arms. This is familiar too, all of it. His smell and his size and the way we line up together, and suddenly I grieve everything that’s gone. With Brendan, I exist in a sick cycle of hope and panic—one day cautiously optimistic, and the next certain the end is coming. That was never the case with Rob, and it strikes me that there's a lot to be said for knowing where you stand with someone.

He pulls back after a moment. “I don’t want any details. I never, ever want any details. I just need to know if it’s serious.”

Serious.

Could I possibly claim that it’s serious, when the end is imminent? When Brendan won’t even acknowledge me in public? Could I possibly claim that it’s not serious when it feels like Brendan is holding my heart tight in his careless fist?

“No. It’s not,” I reply.

The sun falls across the yard in a sudden stripe of muted gold. I tell him I’ve got to get work.

“Can I see you later?” he asks.

“How long are you in town?”

He swallows. "I was hoping to talk to you about that. Do you think we could meet for lunch?"

It feels too soon. It feels like I need a month before I hear what he might have to say. But that's just cowardice, so I reluctantly agree.

He stares at me for a long second. "You're so beautiful, Erin. I know I've said it a hundred times, but I'm seeing you now, and I can't believe I ever let you go without a fight."

He leaves, and I find myself fervently hoping he hasn't decided to fight for me now, either.

* * *

As much as I want to call Brendan, I don’t. I want to talk to Rob first, as if there’s anything that might be said during our conversation that would keep Brendan from ending whatever this is we have going. Instead I sit at my desk all morning, so sick with nerves I’m barely capable of pretending to work.

I’m sure it doesn’t escape Timothy’s attention. He’s been quiet since the incident that led us both to HR, but I suspect he’s documenting my every move—and on his best behavior so I have nothing to document in return. He doesn’t comment when I leave for lunch, but he watches me go. I’d bet a hundred bucks that he scurries right back to his desk to make a note of it the second the door shuts.

Rob is already waiting when I get to the restaurant. His face, as I approach the table, is wistful and hopeful at once. We chitchat at first, like business associates. He asks after my family, and I give him the high points. I ask after his, and he does the same, although I doubt he has to do quite as much selective sharing.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says.

He reaches across the table, his fingers twining with mine. I’d have expected to want my hand back, but I don’t. We’ve done this for so long, it’s almost muscle memory at this point.

“I didn’t even want to go the house,” he says, “knowing you weren’t there. Except you never even liked that house, did you?”

I shrug. "Maybe. But relationships are about compromise."

"Yeah," he agrees. “Except you did all the compromising. And because you gave everything up so easily, I thought none of it mattered to you. But it did. You stopped even asking me for the things you wanted."

If he were Brendan, I could explain that this is how I was raised: you ask for nothing, you fight for nothing, you keep everyone happy—whatever the cost. But Rob knows nothing of my past. This is probably why he understands so little about me. Everything I am was created in that environment. And to reveal any of it would be to reveal all of it, so the girl he knows is basically just someone I’ve substituted for the real me.

"I think maybe we just never had enough overlap, Rob. We're like a Venn diagram where the intersect is tiny."

"I disagree," he says. "Because what I want most—more than my job or anything else—is you. I never put you first, Erin, but that's going to end now. I swear it."

Suddenly this conversation feels like a train without brakes.

I'm sleeping with your best friend. These are the words that could stop it, were I able to utter them. "Rob, you're still based in Amsterdam. I—"

"I'm home for good,” he says, cutting me off. "I told them I either came home or I was quitting. I'll have to fly back once a month, but that's it."

"Why?" I ask weakly. What I want is to say Why in God's name did you do that? And please don't have done it for me.

"Every success I ever had was a success for us, was something I saw benefitting us as a couple, benefitting our kids. Without you, it's just money, and it’s meaningless."

There was a time when I would have loved to hear those words, but now they simply bounce off my surface. He is a good man. He will make someone very happy. But that someone isn’t me.

“Please don’t decide right now,” Rob says. “I know I fucked up, and I just want a chance.”

He asks if we can go to dinner later in the week, just as friends. Because I can’t think of a workable reason why not, I nod, ruing the hours it means being away from Brendan.

And then I remember: there is no more time with Brendan. Every single plan, every single hour we might have had, died the moment Rob’s plane landed.

* * *

I drive back to the office feeling shaken. I could easily call Brendan on the way, but I don’t. I know what I want him to say—that he loves me, that he doesn’t want it to end, that we can find a way to make it work—and I also know he is not going to say it.

I’m not sure I can be trusted to make this call with an audience, so I wait until Timothy leaves the office and Harper steps away from her desk. When Brendan answers, I suck in the rasp of his “hey” like I can taste it. I hear the sound of glasses in the background, the murmurs of a crowd.

“Are you out?” I ask.

“I’m at Beck’s place.”

It’s only 3 PM. I’ve never known Brendan to be out drinking in the middle of the day, at least not since he came home. I don’t know why, but it feels like a bad sign.

I tell him Rob’s home, my stomach tipping, lurching—that same roller coaster I've been on since he first kissed me weeks ago, only so much worse.

“I heard,” he says, still distracted. I hear the unmistakable clink of pool balls crashing.

I didn’t expect that he’d already know. I didn’t expect that he’d sound like he doesn’t give a fuck either.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I didn’t tell him about us. Hang on. It’s my turn to break.”

I’ve slept with him pretty much every day for six weeks. I have spent every free moment with him. But this conversation isn’t even important enough for him to pause his fucking game? I feel that infinitely small wisp of hope gasp and die in my chest.

He comes back to the phone. "Are you going to tell him about us?" he asks. “I don’t want to be blindsided.”

I wanted him to offer something, at least express a little regret at the ending, but instead he sounds like some cavalier dick who had other plans tonight anyway. "Is that all you have to say?" I demand, a lump in my throat.

"What else am I supposed to say?” he says. “It was fun while it lasted. I hope it all works out for you guys, if that’s what you want."

Already I'm crying so hard that my shoulders are shaking and tears are dripping down my face. I will not give him the pleasure of knowing he's responsible for them, so I just hang up the phone.