She didn’t hand it to me. She didn’t hand it to Michael, who was still in the shower.
She silenced it. Fast. Practiced. The kind of fast that only comes from doing something a hundred times before.
“Whose phone is that, Ashley?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. She just set it face-down on the nightstand and picked the schedule back up like nothing had happened.
Michael walked out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, and saw both our faces before either of us said a word.
I picked the phone up myself.
The lock screen photo wasn’t of our kids. It wasn’t of me. It was a photo I recognized instantly — because I took it, four years ago, on our anniversary trip to Charleston, and I never gave it to anyone.
“That’s not your phone, Michael,” I said. “Whose name is on the lock screen?”
Nobody answered.
So I picked up his suitcase, zipped it shut, and carried it to the front door myself.
(dramatized fiction for entertainment)
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