Page 8 of Brash for It
I lie there, the sheet cooling against my skin, the ceiling fan spinning in tranquil, indifferent circles.The ocean keeps talking beyond the glass, relentless as the tide moves in and loud like truth crashing to the shore.
It’s small things that add up to wrong.
Before he didn’t leave the bed without taking me by the hand to shower with him.He used to pull me under the spray with him, laughing when I squealed about cold tile and hot water.He used to kiss me after, water beading on his lashes, his hair stuck in little dark peaks.He used to leave his phone anywhere—kitchen counter, the pocket of a jacket slung on a chair, the arm of the couch—like it was just an object, not an attachment.Now it follows him like a shadow he babysits.And when we were together, the phone was second to me, not the other way around.
Nerves prickle like static under my skin.I turn my head toward the nightstand.The phone is a black rectangle of silence.Face-down.No case, because he hates them.Bare glass, bare secrets.Four minutes pass.I count them on the clock across the room, the second hand stuttering and leaping like it does, always catching up a fraction late.
The water slides hotter, I hear the click of the fancy faucet dial he had to have.He increases the temperature when he’s thinking.I know this because I know him.The intrusive thought is stubborn.It doesn’t let me go.
I shouldn’t do it.That runs through my head alongside the reminder that I have to.They chase each other in circles until my body moves without my permission.I sit up.My heart is too loud.The room is too quiet.The white noise from the shower fills every gap as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand.
My feet hit the rug.The rug is an absurd thing—handwoven, Brian said, like that’s supposed to mean I should be afraid to step on it.I cross it anyway and stop at the nightstand, looking down at the phone like it might bite.
If I touch it, I’m the one crossing a line.That’s what he’ll say.He’ll make it about my hands, not his transgressions.But lines in the sand don’t appear without reason.They’re drawn until a truce is made.
I breathe in, slow.Out, slower.I press my fingers to the edge of the phone and slide it into my palm.It’s lighter than I expect.It’s also heavier.I flip it over.
The lock screen is a picture of water.He took it from the local pier at sunset, the kind of photo that looks expensive even though it cost nothing.That is the thing about living here in Indian Beach full time.Yes, he has a home in Charlotte and another in California.He only goes to Charlotte for work, California for family, and this little spot in coastal North Carolina he considers our hideaway.
The insecurity finds me again,am I his hideaway?This home is the cheapest of them all even though I’m sure he spent at least two to three million on it.I never thought about how this home serves no purpose for him except to escape work, that’s what he used to say.Now, I question everything.
Two notifications flash up before dimming: Calendar alert for something vague—“Lunch”—and a Messages banner that only gives me a name: Q.
No preview.He changed his settings.He never used to hide previews.
I chew the inside of my cheek.The bathroom fan hums.A muted clunk of shampoo bottle against tile.He’s whistling, off-key.
I know the passcode.I didn’t go looking for it.He gave it to me two years ago, on a drive back from Charlotte, when he needed me to pull up directions and he was going eighty-five.
I repeat the numbers in my head.They fit into my finger like a habit.I wonder if he changed it?Never have I touched his phone.This all feels so wrong but my every instinct pushes me to keep going.
My thumb trembles.I steady it.The phone wakes again.I key in the digits.
It opens.The rush in my veins is victory and nausea together.
I don’t go to Messages first, even though that’s the banner that flashed.My hand moves toward the Photos app like gravity is stronger there.The screen brightens.I scroll.The first row is a sea of sunset shots, Rucker’s neon sign, an artfully plated plate of grilled mahi he sent to a client who told him to go live a little.I scroll further.
There she is.
Not her face at first.A mirror selfie taken in a hotel bathroom—the kind with the stone counter and the folded white towels and a complimentary little orchid that’s trying too hard.Her body is the focus.Black lace.The kind of lingerie that’s more design than fabric.It hugs skin like it has a plan.
I don’t need to see her face to know she’s confident.The angles tell me—deliberate, practiced.A second later, there’s the face—another photo, mouth open on a laugh like the person behind the camera said something funny and she’s used to men saying things that make her smile like that.
My breath punches in as if I’ve run a flight of stairs.The next photo is his hand on her thigh.I recognize the watch.The one I bought him for his birthday.It looks expensive against her skin.It is.
The scroll turns jagged.My thumb won’t listen.It keeps going, a compulsion I can’t tame.There’s a picture of the sound side of Indian Beach, a boat wake fanning white with a marker in the water I recognize from this area.There’s a picture of a menu at a steakhouse we’ve never been to together.There’s a picture of a hotel key card on a bedside table with a room number I memorize even though it will mean nothing by morning.There’s a picture of him, lying back on a bed I don’t recognize, shirt open, smile easy in a way I haven’t earned in weeks, maybe months.He took it himself.The angle makes his jaw look stronger.I hate that it makes him look happy.
I exit Photos like it’s burning me and click open Messages.The bubbles fall into place and stack themselves into a narrative I’ll never stop hearing once I’ve read it.The contact at the top is just B with a little black heart.The thread goes back farther than I want to scroll.I pick up in the last three days, like I can contain it to a window small enough to survive.
Q:When are you coming back?
Brian:Soon.Play nice.
Q:You like me better when I don’t.
Brian:True.
Q:(photo of the front of her very sheer panties and what looks like jewels on the skin of her vagina)
