My family hadn't approved. They thought his background was too ordinary. So he threw himself into work, grinding through overtime for three years until he'd saved enough for a down payment on a house.
Everyone said Clay Dickerson was the kind of good man you'd be lucky to find once in a lifetime.
I believed him.
Late October.
It was raining. He came to pick me up from work.
The car was parked outside my office building. He sat in the driver's seat, scrolling through his phone, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
I opened the passenger door. He killed the screen instantly.
Too fast. Deliberately so.
"What were you looking at?"
"Nothing. Just watching some videos." He slid the phone into the cupholder and started the engine. "What do you feel like eating tonight?"
As I buckled my seatbelt, I caught the screen lighting up again out of the corner of my eye. A social media notification. But the car was already pulling away, and I couldn't make it out.
That evening, he cooked dinner with his phone glued to his side. He'd never been like that before. He used to toss his phone on the couch the second he walked in, then stand beside me at the counter chopping vegetables. Now he checked it every few minutes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward each time.
I finished washing the vegetables and walked up behind him.
He flinched.
"What are you doing?" He flipped the phone face-down on the counter.
"Getting the salt."
He stepped aside but kept his eyes locked on me. I scooped out the salt and walked back to the cutting board.
Neither of us said a word through the whole exchange, but something between us had already shifted.
Mid-November. The first time he stood me up.
I had a fever that day and had called in sick. I lay in bed, shivering under the covers.
That morning, before he left, he pressed his palm to my forehead and promised he'd come home early. Said he'd bring me some soup.
I waited all afternoon. Five o'clock turned to six. Six turned to nine.
No soup. Just a text: "Got stuck at work last minute. Go to sleep."
I called him. No answer. Sent a text. No reply.
At one in the morning, he came through the door.
I pretended to be asleep, listening as he tiptoed into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed for a while before heading to the shower.
I picked up the jacket he'd tossed over the chair.
On the collar, a single long strand of hair.
My hair was short.