I took a sip of wine that tasted like regret wearing a fruit costume.
“I don’t know,” I said finally. “Something feels off.”
“With Marcus?”
I shrugged, which was cowardly because, of course, I meant Marcus.
“Maybe I’m being unfair.”
“Maybe,” Lauren said. “Or maybe you’re not.”
I hated that she did not comfort me with certainty. That would have been easier. I wanted someone to say, “No, he loves you, you’re just stressed,” and hand me permission to ignore myself for one more week.
Lauren did not give fake permission. She had survived her own disaster at twenty-seven, a boyfriend who drained her savings and called it shared struggle, and she had come out the other side with clear eyes and a very low tolerance for men who made women feel dramatic for asking basic questions.
“Do you want to call him?” she asked.
“No.”
“Do you want me to call him?”
“Absolutely not.”
She nodded. “Then we drink water and watch everyone else embarrass themselves.”
That was love.
We stayed up too late. Saturday morning, I woke with the dry mouth, puffy face, low-grade headache combination that makes you feel like your own body has filed a complaint. I stood in the bathroom staring at myself. Mascara shadow under my eyes. Hair doing something hateful. From downstairs came the muffled sound of my friends hunting coffee like survivalists.
I should have gone down. I should have eaten toast, made jokes, taken group pictures in matching pajamas, and let the weekend carry me forward.
Instead, I sat on the edge of the tub because one stupid thought hit me so hard I almost said it out loud.
I want to go home and cook dinner with him.
Not for him. With him.
Not because cooking was my job or because I believed domestic effort could repair emotional uncertainty. I just suddenly needed to see Marcus being ordinary. I needed to watch him stand in our kitchen complaining about work, reaching for a spoon, opening the refrigerator, kissing me absently on his way past. I needed proof that my instincts were wrong.
I tried to talk myself out of it for maybe thirty minutes.
I paced around the room. I brushed my teeth twice. I opened the group chat and typed, Headed down soon, then deleted it. I told myself if I left now, I would look insane. If I drove home and found nothing, I would have to admit I had let anxiety drag me two hours across the state because Marcus kissed my forehead too much.
But the longer I ignored the feeling, the worse it got. It changed from nerves into certainty so quietly I almost missed the moment. One second, I was embarrassed by my own suspicion. The next, I knew I needed to get in my car.
I went downstairs and told everyone I had a headache and wanted to pick up medicine in town.
Hannah offered to come with me.
