“What’s this?” I asked, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.
“My old phone.” He pressed the power button and waited for it to light up. “My daughter found it a few weeks ago. I hadn’t seen it in years. I charged it, and I found…”
He trailed off, opened the messages, and turned the screen toward me.
It was a conversation between him and Peter. From seven years ago. Before Peter died.
I watched when Dan scrolled up, showing me their back-and-forth. Typical guy stuff at first. Jokes about sports. Plans to grab beers. Then the conversation shifted. I could see Dan had been venting about something.
Dan: I don’t know, man. Sometimes I look at what you have, and I wonder if I’ll ever get that lucky. You and Isabel just work, you know?
Peter: You’ll find it. Just takes time.
Dan: Yeah, maybe. But seriously, you hit the jackpot with her. She’s amazing. You’re lucky, you know that?
And Peter’s response made my breath catch:
Peter: Don’t. Seriously. Don’t go there.
A pause. Then:
Peter: Promise me you’ll never try anything with her. Ever. She’s my wife. Don’t cross that line.
I stared at the words until they swam together, my hands going cold and numb. In that moment, everything fell into place. Dan had been navigating his own divorce, likely feeling adrift and vulnerable, and he’d crossed a line by admiring what Peter had in a way that was too obvious. And Peter—protective and possessive in the way devoted husbands can be—had set a firm boundary.
“I’d completely forgotten this conversation existed,” Dan said softly. His voice was shaking. “I was in such a bad place back then. My marriage was falling apart. I was watching you and Pete at the barbecue, seeing how good you were together, and I said something stupid. I never planned anything back then. I swear to God, Isabel. You were his wife. My buddy’s wife. I never even let myself think about you that way.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.