Chapter 18

"Nathan Emory!" I shouted from the entryway of our town house, the one in the Garden District, using his first and middle names, a nomenclature I reserved for my ex when I was particularly annoyed with him. "Where the hell are my keys?"

I didn't like having a car, but Nate insisted I get one when we moved in with each other a year after we got together, almost a year to the day after time slowed to a crawl when he passed me in the hallway at Avenue with his sandy-blond hair and his arrogant wink and his tight ass. Cars required maintenance and gas and insurance and, apparently, a weekly trip to the car wash. It was a lot of work that I didn't want, like the relationship in which I found myself, the only benefit presenting itself in the form of air-conditioning.

The town house we bought seemed like a great idea at first. It was big and fancy and new and only three blocks further from the train station than my apartment had been. But three extra blocks in the suffocating heat of an Atlanta summer was a special kind of hell reserved for serial killers and Buckhead Betties.

Nate didn't answer. I was going to be late for work, and he'd gotten into the habit of moving my car keys when I left them sitting on the credenza in the entryway. They weren't hastily shoved into a drawer like they usually were when he relocated them for me, and I didn't see them lying anywhere else around the entryway—sorry, "foyer," as I'd been corrected—either. I scanned every available surface as I made my way to the primary bathroom upstairs, the keys nowhere to be found. It wasn't like they were unsubstantial; they may as well have been a brick, the black-and-chrome casing of the fob, proudly displaying the Mercedes-Benz logo, surrounding a key that popped out with the click of a button. The ring also held my house key, mailbox key, and work keys, necessary for access to every important faction of my life, none of which I was sure I wanted anymore.

"Nate," I snapped, poking my head into the bathroom as he showered, standing behind a glass partition, fogged by the steam, accented by white marble everything: floors, walls, double vanity. It was opulent and unnecessary and everything Nate loved to show off as he gave tours of our place during parties. "Where are my keys?"

"What?" he shouted, rinsing the overpriced conditioner out of his hair.

"My keys," I repeated. "I gotta get to work."

"Where did you leave them?" he asked, tone dripping with disdain. I fucking hated questions like that. I knew where I left my keys. He knew where I left my keys. And he knew I knew where I left my keys. What he was really conveying—in shrouded language—was that he felt it was tacky to leave my keys on the credenza by the front door instead of placing them somewhere more appropriate and out of sight, like up his ass.

"On the credenza. Like always."

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. There's a key rack by the door to the garage. I put it up yesterday. It just keeps everything more organized."

And inconvenient for me since I parked my car on the street in front of our place rather than in the garage just off the kitchen, where Nate kept his BMW. It was another way for him to exert his control, to show me that he was the clear breadwinner in our relationship. He'd always had a car. I'd only bought one when he strongly suggested I do so. He was frustrated when I didn't spring for the latest model, a new one right off the lot. Instead, I opted for a used one, a few years old, a few miles on it. I didn't do it to piss him off, not consciously, but the look of disappointment on his face when I drove up satisfied me in a way I didn't understand. His baby was to be kept in the garage. Mine would be relegated to the street with the other trash.

The first couple of years with Nate were good. We were young. We had fun. But Avenue closed, and in its absence opened a slew of ultra-lounges and chic hotel bars. Nate was quick to adapt, the vibe of such velvet-rope establishments meshing more seamlessly with the portrait he had been painting of himself, of his life, of us. The minute he figured out how to skip the line and get on track for partner at his law firm, everything changed. He suddenly needed to show everyone how well we were doing, to exert his innate worthiness.

His folks didn't help; the pressure they exuded was discernible: "Haven't you gotten the city out of your system yet? Why are you still living in Midtown with all the riffraff? Don't you see how much more you could have if you and that friend of yours just made something of yourselves?"

These were questions I only imagined them asking. The Southern belle that rooted deep in his mother's soul wouldn't accept such crude inquiries as polite discourse. Instead, she'd ask, "Have you thought about moving back to Chatham Springs? The property values continue to escalate. Once you and your friend have gotten your career paths on course, you'd surely want to get out of the city. Things are so much quieter here. So much nicer."

She presented the judgments—the suppressed racism and homophobia—in a way that was much more palatable. But where my survival was rooted in distance, Nate's was rooted in collusion, learning the slithering secrets to his folks' success, studying them and mimicking them. He had a trust fund and a job that overpaid him, but the key to his survival—to his success—was their money. He would play the part as well as he could, a healthy inheritance lying in wait. His aversion to loneliness and poverty manifested itself in ladder-climbing, material gain, and serial dating. Relationships came naturally to him. Monogamy didn't.

"You think you could have told me about it?" I barked. "Traffic is a bitch this time of day, so I don't really have any time to spare."

"Sorry, babe."

He wasn't.

I stormed out and headed downstairs to the kitchen to find the key rack. It looked no less tacky than a set of keys sitting on a credenza by the front door. We had given up on goodbye kisses. Utterances of I love you before walking out the door each morning had ceased not long after moving in together. I told myself it was because we were comfortable, that the novelty had worn off. We'd been in a relationship for so long. In reality, we'd become roommates, two adults living separate lives in the same space, sometimes dining together, sharing a bed for convenience. The sex may have been the only thing holding us together, Nate's fabricated stories of our success as a Midtown power couple losing weight with his friends with each passing day.

I grabbed my keys from the rack and shuffled down the hallway to the front door, only to feel my phone vibrating in my pocket as I rushed. I struggled to fish it from my slacks and sighed when I saw it was my ma. She hadn't called me in months. Our relationship worked best when we didn't speak very often. But it was Wednesday. She never called on a Wednesday. She should have been at school getting ready to start the day, welcoming her students to class. The call gave me pause.

"Ma, what's up?" I asked, a twinge of alarm to my tone as I struggled to lock the door behind me, a bag in one hand and a phone in the other.

"It's your father, Brandon," she announced, a slight whimper dotting the words. "He's had a heart attack."

"What do you mean, Ma? Is he alright?"

"No," she answered. Another whimper. "He's gone, honey."

Time stood still for a moment. I froze on that front porch that had room for nothing more than a potted plant—that same potted plant that now sat on my balcony. My ma started weeping on the other end, something I'd never heard her do. I wasn't sure if the announcement made me sad or angry or if it just surprised me. I hadn't spoken to my pops directly in years, only gotten updates about his job and his health from my ma, topics I never once pressed her about, details I never asked for yet were provided to me almost dutifully. I didn't like my pops. The easygoing, fun, almost optimistic guy that withdrew into a cold, stoic, judgmental presence when my sister and I developed personalities had had no bearing on my life for close to twenty years. He'd rejected a relationship with us to ensure his own salvation in the end. Hopefully, he got what he wanted.

"I'm sorry, Ma," I finally responded. "Does Gina know?"

"Not yet."

"Alright. I'll call her," I offered, acknowledging that their relationship had been as strained as the relationship between my pops and me.

"Will you be home for the funeral?" she asked, back to business, knowing I'd be there but setting the stage for the guilt trip of the century in case I couldn't make it.

"Yeah," I sighed. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Do you want me to be there?" Nate asked when I told him I'd be heading back to Long Island for a few days.

"Yeah, I thought it might be nice," I snapped as I leaned into the doorframe of the bathroom, Nate drying himself with a towel, my attempt at sarcasm not even close to subtle.

"Alright," he conceded, wiping the excess moisture from his face. "I'll talk to my boss and see if I can get a flight out tomorrow."

That may have been the moment I realized that not only did I not love Nate, but I hated him. He was familiar, a comforting figure in my life because he'd been around for years. But he was a raging prick, and somehow, I'd never seen it as clearly as I did in that moment. I realized that I didn't actually want him there. I didn't want to be there myself, but it was an obligation. I had to be there for my ma. And if I had to be there, I didn't want another obligation weighing me down. And that's exactly what Nate had become: an obligation.

Just weeks before, I'd secured the lease on the building that would soon become City Paws. I had started planning it not long after Avenue closed, forcing myself to focus on something other than partying every weekend. I just wanted a chance to be my own boss, to do something I enjoyed. I wasn't sure if I'd survive, but I knew I wanted to try my hand at running something of my own instead of answering to a director who didn't respect my opinions, who treated me as though I was his on-call assistant, fielding phone calls on my days off, in the middle of the night, whenever he had a thought about anything, work-related or not.

"Actually," I chimed in, reality coming into view. "Why don't you stay?"

"You're sure?" he asked, confused as to why I'd changed my tune so quickly but not concerned enough to ask why.

"Yeah. I mean, me and my pops weren't that close. And you should focus on work right now." I made myself sound as sincere as possible. "It might be best if I did this on my own anyway."

"Alright. Well, I'll see you when you get back in a few days, then." He wrapped the towel around his waist as he breezed past me in the doorway, ambivalently kissing me on the cheek on his way to the walk-in closet. I rolled my eyes and walked downstairs, pulling a barstool out from under the kitchen island so I could call my boss to let him know I'd be gone for a few days. I would put in my notice when I got back the following week. The thought of hanging around any longer made me nauseous, especially when faced with the grim realization that anyone could die at any time, for any reason. I had enough saved up to spend the next couple of months getting the shop ready and finding the staff to help me run it.

My boss feigned sorrow but seemed incredibly put out by my request for time away. I laughed to myself and told him I'd be available by cell if he needed me. I wouldn't. I called Gina to let her know, then Alex and Calvin to inform them I'd be out of town. They asked if I'd like them to be there. They did it without the implication that it would be an imposition. It would only be through the weekend. I could handle it on my own.

That afternoon, I caught a flight out of Atlanta, landing at LaGuardia a few hours later. A quick shuttle ride to pick up a rental car and an hour's drive on the LIE later, I was parked in the narrow driveway of my childhood home, my fists clenched tightly around the steering wheel as I debated whether to turn the car around and drive back to Atlanta. It was only a fourteen-hour drive, I laughed to myself, a quick nine-hundred-mile trip down the Eastern Seaboard. No big deal.

Dusk was settling in, and there was an orange glow to the streetlight that kicked on across from the house. Small, quaint, and vaguely New England-esque, the house looked exactly how it had when I was growing up, if a little worse for the wear. My pops had probably planned to touch up the trim around the front door and the windows with white paint later that summer. He certainly wouldn't have paid anyone to do it. It looked like my ma had kept the garden that butted up against the front of the house and ran alongside the driveway planted with all kinds of wildflowers and small bushes. It looked nice. But nothing had changed; the same brick pavers lined the walkway up to the front porch, the same green vinyl shutters framed the windows, the same tree I hurt my wrist on when sneaking out of my bedroom window twenty years ago grew in the same place between the Murphys' house and ours, only slightly taller.

I felt like a teenager again, grabbing my bag from the passenger seat of the car and walking up to the front door. Only this time, I wasn't sneaking back in after being out all night while trying to concoct a lie in my head about where I'd been. My ma was probably sitting at the dining room table, drinking a cup of coffee and grading papers, unaware that a car had pulled into the driveway. I couldn't believe I was going to be staying there for the next few days, helping her plan a funeral for someone I felt like I barely knew.

"Ma!" I shouted as I closed the door behind me, turning the lock out of habit. It was unlocked when I twisted the knob to let myself in. "You should keep the door locked. Anyone could just walk in."

"This isn't the city, Brandon," I heard her say as she got up from the table, walking into the living room to greet me. "People are friendly here. Give me a hug."

"There are friendly people in the city, Ma," I quipped back as we embraced, quickly, almost clinically.

A coif of loose black curls framed her face, structured by product and time. It was a helmet with minimal give, a look she could have trademarked. Dark red eyeglasses perched themselves on the bridge of her narrow nose, held in place by a dainty silver chain. She wore high-rise, pleated khaki chinos, a casual off-white top, and a knit cardigan, some off-shade of olive green. Nothing about her style had changed in fifteen years. Her lips, normally pursed tight, as though forever in a state of judgment, seemed more relaxed now.

"Sure," she cracked, wiping a tear from her eye. "And rapists and murderers and junkies."

I couldn't bring myself to argue with her, even though there was a good chance the Quik Mart on Montauk Highway had probably been robbed by friendly junkies last week.

"Well, it's nice to see you. It happens so infrequently," she continued, her tone becoming tinged with frustration. "Did you talk to your sister? Is she coming to the funeral?"

"Yeah, Ma," I started, unable to control my sarcasm. "I think she'll be at Pops's funeral."

"You know I barely see her. She hardly ever leaves Brooklyn."

"She lives in Brooklyn, Ma. When's the last time you left Babylon?"

"Why should I? Everything I need is right here. Besides, it's different. It's nice here. It's quiet here." She sounded like Nate's mother. "I don't know what they see in that place, your sister and her husband. The last time I was in Brooklyn, it was disgusting. There was garbage on the street and homeless people everywhere."

"Ma, they live in Carroll Gardens. It's like the Upper West Side now."

"Well, I'll never know. She's never invited us," she rambled, stumbling over the word us. I could tell it made her realize that my pops was no longer there to make them an us. It would just be her now. "Not once," she continued, dabbing at the bottom of her eye with a knuckle. "She could at least call from time to time. Have you eaten?"

"Nah. But I'm fine."

"Nonsense. Gino's delivers."

"Yeah, Ma. I know Gino's delivers," I started, but she held up a finger before I could finish, dialing the number into the handset of the portable phone that sat on the end table by the couch. And just like that, I'd been guilted into eating, guilted for not visiting more often, guilted because my sister liked living in Brooklyn. It was a real skill my ma had. Instead of arguing, I just dropped my bag onto the couch and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The wake was held on Friday, the funeral mass on Saturday. By the time my pops's body was in the ground, I had had about as much hugging and handshaking as I could take. Gina and my ma were visiting with extended family and friends who had come back to the house to drop off food and share in the mourning when I snuck out and wandered down Deer Park Avenue, ending up at a pub in the village. It was busy with people eating and drinking, various sporting events taking place on multiple screens scattered throughout the place. Every once in a while, a group of people would shout in disgust or cheer in delight at something that had happened somewhere on some field or court. I couldn't have cared less. I just wanted to get drunk.

I ordered a second beer, bringing the pint glass to my lips as soon as the bartender set it in front of me. The individual voices around me turned into a garbled mass of sound as I disconnected from reality and checked my phone. Nate hadn't texted or called me once. Gina texted me back after I told her where I was, suggesting that she and Tim meet me later. I had multiple texts from Alex asking me how things were going and one from Calvin that was just a selfie of him, Alex, Patrick, and Darryl lifting their glasses to toast as they sat at a table at Drew's. I had always told him that when I died, I didn't want a funeral. I just wanted my friends to get together and get drunk, sharing sordid stories about my life. I appreciated his attempt at support, even though I'd never told him in much detail how I really felt about my pops.

"Boy?" a gravelly male voice excitedly shouted from behind me, rocking me from my daze, pulling me from the screen of my phone. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw a group of five or six people stumbling in the door, only one of whom I vaguely recognized. Only now, his short hair was a natural shade of dark brown instead of blue, and he didn't wear a visor or an oversized T-shirt, opting instead for a polo and jeans that fit him well. Very well.

"Wendy?" I smiled back, suddenly realizing that at least fifteen years had passed since I'd seen him. Standing from my barstool, I turned, stepping in his direction as his friends filtered past, heading toward a pool table in the back. Neil's arms opened wide, and we embraced in a hug that I had needed since arriving in Babylon.

"You back in town?" he asked before noticing the black suit I was wearing as we pulled apart. His expression faded.

"Just for the weekend. A funeral."

"Sorry about that, man."

"It's cool. Part of life, I guess."

"Yeah. Sure," he played along. "Where are you now? Still in the city?"

"Atlanta."

"Shit. Good for you. Manhattan's nothing like it used to be."

"You live in the city?"

"Nah. I'm here. But I head in for work a few times a week."

"You look good," I said, an attempt to keep our conversation simple. I wanted to ask him to have a drink with me. To sit with me so I could try to remember the scent of patchouli and something sweet. The sensation of his fingers near my lips as he lit my cigarette. The feel of his mouth on my cock. But I didn't want to keep him from his friends.

"Thanks. I work out." The way he said it was funny, like he was trying to be funny, and it made me laugh in a way that I hadn't laughed for a while. "Hey," he continued, repeating the same line he'd used on me all those years ago. "You should be my friend tonight."

"I've heard that before."

"C'mon, let me buy you a drink. It's been a long time."

"Your friends won't mind?"

"Nah. They probably already forgot I'm here. I think they got started pretty early today."

"Short or tall?" he asked before licking the salt from the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, throwing back another shot of tequila, lime to follow.

"Tall," I answered definitively, doing the same. "But I don't discriminate."

We laughed, continuing the stupid game we had somehow started an hour earlier. He'd again mentioned that I looked good in my suit, and I'd asked him if he was into guys wearing formal or casual clothes. It depends on the guy, he'd said. And the situation. He then asked whether I was into guys with dark or light hair. Dark, I'd answered. Always had been. Always will be. Nate's is sandy blond. I was starting to hate myself for ever getting involved with him. What had I seen in him?

"The drugs, probably. And the sex."

"What?" I asked, confused.

"You asked what you had seen in this guy you're with. My guess is that you always had fun when you partied together, but not so much anymore."

"Shit. I forgot I told you about us."

"Probably the tequila. Makes it easy to forget."

"Then let's get another one," I suggested.

"Listen, it sounds to me like you've already made up your mind about this guy. And people aren't meant to be together forever. I've always said that."

"Yeah. I remember."

"Well, you're not too far gone, then."

"Fine. Let's pick back up," I suggested. "Gay or straight?"

"Still undecided." He smiled and winked as he sipped his beer.

"Of course you are."

I couldn't help but laugh as I gulped back my lager. We had had enough tequila to loosen up, but I'd sit and drink beer with Neil all night if he wanted to. I didn't know exactly what it was about him. He was cute but not too perfect, intelligent but not pretentious. He was new age in a way that utilized logic. Not many people could pull off that kind of individuality. Confidence radiated from under his skin, never crossing the line into pompousness.

The door to the pub opened again and Gina and Tim walked in, noticing us right away. Gina approached and started in as though we hadn't been apart for the past few hours. "Ma is out of control."

"Hey, Tim," I said, briefly addressing my sister's husband before turning my focus to her. "What do you mean?"

"She just won't let it go that we haven't been back to Babylon. She's been on about it since you left." Then, without missing a beat, "Who's your friend?"

"Huh," I managed, my eyes drifting slightly to the side, diverting in thought, a pensive expression growing across my face.

"What?" Gina asked accusingly.

"I just realized how much you two sound like each other when you're going on about something."

Tim nearly doubled over in laughter. Gina glared at him. "Ugh. Fuck off, Brandon."

"Oh, there's the difference. This is Neil," I finally answered, motioning to the cute, intelligent, confident, new-age guy occupying the barstool next to me.

"Nice to meet you, Neil. Let's grab a table. I'm starving." She abruptly turned to barrel toward an empty booth.

I informed the bartender we'd be continuing our tab from the booth in which Gina was making herself at home while Chic's "I Want Your Love" played in the background, buried in the sounds of a babbling sports announcer, glasses clanging against tables, and the dull roar of people enjoying a night out.

Accomplishing my goal of getting drunk was easy as Gina ordered two more pitchers. Watching her revert back to her childhood, her natural habitat, the innate comfort of her loudmouthed, South Shore essence, was funny. The crunchy coffee shop owner she'd become since moving to Brooklyn would have scoffed had that version of herself been able to look her up and down. She threw back organic beer after organic beer, doing her best to coat her stomach with a salad and half a baguette she'd smuggled into the bar in her bag. "It's impossible to find any fuckin' vegan food here," she complained while the rest of us worked on a pizza the size of the table.

The next morning, I woke up in Neil's bed with a hangover that wouldn't quit. The world hadn't produced enough water to counter the amount of alcohol I'd consumed. We lay in his bed in our underwear for a while, curled up, bullshitting, too afraid to move too quickly out of fear that our heads might rupture, only limping into the kitchen at the suggestion of breakfast.

Neil had bagels that we shared over coffee. The carbs helped to take the edge off, to dull the splitting headache that would stay with me for the rest of the day. He lived in a Cape Cod on Prospect Street, steps from the village. While eating, I expressed my guilt, the uneasiness I felt about cheating on Nate.

"Did you though?" he asked, chuckling. The question was sincere. "It wasn't like we went very far. You passed out before we could."

"The intent was there."

"Do you really think he's been faithful to you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" I clapped back in defense.

"I just mean that you haven't been happy, judging by what you told me last night. Is that because he's changed? Or is that because you've started to realize that maybe he won't?"

I wasn't sure how to respond.

"Brandon, you're a good person. You didn't hook up with me last night on a whim. You thought it through. You made a decision that would have consequences. Consequences that you were okay with accepting based on past events."

My silence continued, palpable enough to cut through with the butter knife I held in my hand, coated in cream cheese and regret.

"I'm not trying to upset you," he continued. "I just think you've realized that your boyfriend isn't who you thought he was. He isn't who you intended to be with. And he didn't go to your old man's funeral. It speaks volumes."

"What are you, like an oracle?" I asked.

"I'm psychic, remember?"

We managed a laugh, sipping our coffees and remembering back to that first night we met. His words made me feel better. I still felt guilty about what we did, whatever that was. But he was right. Nate hadn't been innocent. His sweetness was a ploy, a manipulation, his words demeaning on the backside, the side I couldn't see. He probably hadn't been nearly as faithful as I'd hoped, as he'd led me to believe. I just never wanted to find out. I didn't want my world to fall apart.

Back in Atlanta, waking up next to Neil became a hazy tale in the recesses of my mind, one that I kept to myself. It was a blurry anecdote that sat somewhere between fact and fiction. He was simply an old friend who lent me his bed after I'd had too much to drink. He could have been Alex or Calvin, his platonic variant of connection as pure as devoted acquaintanceship. That was how I justified it. Telling Nate would have done more harm than good.

I probably should have broken up with him upon my return. He treated me like garbage, like a bag of trash with a pretty bow on top. But Neil got me thinking, a growing determination budding within me, a meddlesome need to discover just how faithful Nate had been. How faithful he was being. It was a distraction, a place for my wandering focus, a way to pass the time while I figured out how to get my life together, what I really wanted to do once the shop was opened. Maybe it was selfish, but so was Nate. Justifying my actions became easier by the day.

I didn't have to work hard to uncover Nate's indiscretions; I simply had to try, call his office and chat with one of his coworkers under a celebratory guise. I simply wanted to surprise him with a congratulations-on-winning-the-big-case party and needed to know where he and his colleagues frequently went out for drinks downtown. One couldn't believe my shock—my awe—at the revelation that there were no such places, no such happy-hour gatherings.

"You don't say?" I chaffed. Nate was so pompous, so sure of himself. Of course he wouldn't take the time to cover his tracks.

"He usually has lunch at the Woodruff Hotel. Sometimes an afternoon cocktail. Honey, that might be a nice place for the party," the uncomplicated receptionist proposed, her childlike voice weathered, along in years, a Southern accent gliding along the edges of her words.

That week, guided by purpose and mischief, Calvin and I took a sick day and popped into the hotel for an afternoon cocktail. We found a secluded corner booth away from the entrance with a view of the bar, nicely hidden by a palm plant that gave us cover. We held menus high in front of our faces like we belonged in an eighties sitcom. We felt like spies. I guess we were. It was sometimes hard not to laugh, hard not to break the caricatures we'd doodled of ourselves that day.

It was nearly five thirty when Nate arrived, pushing his way to the bar as though the place wasn't nearly empty, the bartender mixing him a cocktail before he ever sat down. Only, he didn't sit down. Instead, he approached an attractive guy who'd been leaning against the bar as though he didn't want to get too comfortable, as though he'd been expecting someone. He wore a nice suit: gray and tailored. He had maybe twenty-five, twenty-six years behind him, fresh-faced, like he'd never had to worry about a thing. Like Nate, who reached out and secretly grabbed his ass as he approached, the guy smiling as he spun around to greet my boyfriend. It wasn't the first time they'd met there.

They quickly downed their drinks, and Nate paid the tab before heading to the hotel lobby, then the elevator bank. The lobby was opulent, white marble this and that, deep purple accents, chandeliers. It was a place meant for people with money, for people to show off their money. A perfect place for Nate.

Calvin and I jumped from our booth and followed them out, covertly leaving enough space so they wouldn't sense us behind them. A bell rang as we positioned ourselves behind a giant marble column, the light above one of the elevator doors illuminating. They stepped inside as the door opened, disappearing from our sight.

I wasn't mad. I think I was well aware of what I was going to encounter when we set out to investigate Nate's behavior. I was just annoyed at my own stupidity, my blind faith, my willful ignorance.

"Why pay for a hotel room?" Calvin asked as we walked back into the bar to chat with the bartender and order another round of drinks—strong ones. By that time, we were already two in. Another down the hatch would set the tone for the day: befuddled exigence, lit up with consequence.

"Can't use our place. Maybe the other guy isn't single either?"

I then turned to address the bartender, a woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, with long, straight hair dyed jet black and pulled back into a bun. She seemed less than impressed with the commuter crowd that quickly filled the tables after work let out, suits and ties, wheeling and dealing, mingling with similarly situated out-of-towners there on business. I couldn't blame her; it wasn't my type of crowd either. She seemed like she might be covered with tattoos under her white button-up shirt and black slacks, body jewelry hastily removed before her shift. I was pretty sure I could get her to spill the beans on Nate. She looked bored enough to talk shit. Calvin and I stuck out like sore thumbs in our jeans and T-shirts.

"The two guys that just downed their drinks and left," I started.

"Yeah?" she asked, eyeing us both, absorbing our appearances, trying to make a judgment call about how much she could share.

"They come here often?"

"Couple times a week. They usually mack on each other at the bar for a while when they think no one's looking, then head up to their room."

"Every time?"

"Every time," she deadpanned. "I sometimes see them leaving the hotel an hour later, sometimes together, sometimes alone. What's it to you?"

"The taller guy with the blond hair? He's my boyfriend… Nate."

"Oh." Her expression visibly changed, eyes settling on an emotion between sympathy and curious interest. "I'm guessing he won't be much longer?"

"Good guess."

Calvin chimed in after finishing a sip of his drink. "You know who the other guy is?"

"I think they're coworkers," she spilled, suddenly developing a keen interest in her job. "I've overheard them talking about people at their office before. I think the younger guy's an assistant."

"You ever seen the older one here with anyone else?"

"He's here alone sometimes. When he's by himself, he sits at the bar and scrolls through his phone."

Chatter. He probably scrolled through Chatter, searching for nearby tourists: hot young travelers and guys in town on business. I never thought to check his phone. It didn't feel like my place. Maybe I wasn't sure I wanted to know what I'd find.

"How long have those two been coming in?" I asked.

"I started here about a year ago. They've been coming in at least since then. Sorry," she offered.

I threw back my drink and shrugged. "Not your fault." I wiped at the corner of my lip, catching what I couldn't hold in my mouth. She fixed another drink and set it on the bar in front of me. I pulled a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and pushed it toward her.

"On the house," she said, pulling glasses from the dishwasher under the bar, drying them with a cloth. "You seem like you've had a rough day. Besides, I hate this job."

"Thanks, but you don't have to do that. This is from our joint account."

She looked at me, eyes wide, as though I'd just become the coolest person she'd ever met.

"And so is your tip," I continued, fetching another hundred from my wallet, sliding it her way, thanking her for the drinks and the information.

Calvin and I fled the hotel calmly, no longer worried about the possibility of being seen. We spilled out onto a busy downtown sidewalk, a mess with rush-hour commuters walking to their cars, their hotels, the train station. The fresh air hit me hard, renewing my energy, subduing the courage I had just imbibed. Car horns blared as heavy traffic snaked its way up and down the narrow street, impervious to the fact that my life had just changed. I had emancipated myself while Nate fucked the assistant in a hotel room three hundred feet above us.

"C'mon." I wrapped my arm around Calvin's shoulder and pulled him toward nothing in particular. "Let's call Alex and get drunk."

Nate started cheating on me two years after our relationship commenced, with the assistant, with a couple of guys who regularly traveled to Atlanta on business, with a host of tricks he'd picked up on Chatter. I confronted him, we fought, he deflected, blaming his impulses—his insensitive actions—on me. We got loud. He tried to veer me, attempted to turn the tables, feigned hurt and jealousy as he mockingly assumed I'd been just as unfaithful as he had. I didn't budge.

He tried to stop me from leaving, grabbing my wrists and pinning me against the front door as he angrily yelled. I wasn't even sure why he cared. He didn't need me around. He had others in his life that could satisfy his lust, his need for control. Maybe he feared I might talk, that his circle of cohorts—of followers—would find out what a conniving prick he was. Perhaps tales of his indiscretions would find their way around Midtown. The society set of doctors and lawyers and trust-fund babies he ran with, the ones with nice cars and expensive homes and pretty partners, might be made aware of what a lying, cheating fuck he was. How he could easily bend people to his will if it would help him get ahead, achieve some goal he'd set for himself. He used them just like people used him. I was a pawn. I helped him paint a picture of success.

He could have his fancy car and his designer clothes and his all-but-announced partnership at his firm. And his tricks. I didn't want any of it. None of it ever fit into the picture I wanted to paint for my life. I wanted my own life, not sanded and wrapped at the edges, but a real one, jagged and stained. I was tired of living in his bleeding watercolor. And I was sick of living in that town house.

Alex and Patrick generously boarded me for a couple of months, until Nate and I were able to sell the town house, until I could close on my condo at Stratus. A month after that, I opened City Paws. It was one of the most difficult years of my life, but I survived. Leaving Nate had been necessary, a defining moment, scarring but proud. I simply didn't realize how deep his dishonesty had cut me, how the wounds from his actions continued to fester, gaping and sensitive to the touch. Instead, I pretended they weren't there and chose to feel nothing. Nate was a jerk, an infection that I couldn't shake.

Fuck that guy.