Chapter 4 - THE MIDNIGHT TEXT MESSAGES: WHEN THE JOKE STARTS LOSING ITS HUMOR
At 11:42 PM, while I was sitting on the leather sofa of my new corporate rental downtown, sipping a glass of cabernet and reading a legal thriller on my tablet, my phone buzzed against the coffee table.
It was an incoming text from Ryan.
“Hey babe. You asleep?”
I stared at the screen, letting the notification sit there for three full minutes before tapping it open.
I didn't reply.
Three minutes later, another text arrived.
“We’re back at the apartment. Chloe and everyone went home. Ava is crashing on the guest room pull-out. Honestly, this whole 24-hour thing is getting a bit weird now that the champagne has worn off. Call me when you get this.”
Getting a bit weird.
You don't say.
Marrying your best friend as a joke on Valentine’s Day started feeling "weird" around midnight when the alcohol cleared their systems and the reality of their joint legal status settled over their rented hotel room or guest bed like a wet wool blanket.
My phone rang.
Ryan’s caller ID flashed across the screen with a cheerful photo of us taken in Lake Tahoe two summers ago—back when I still believed his friendship with Ava was harmless.
I let it ring out.
All seven rings.
Until it rolled over to voicemail.
I didn't block his number.
Blocking felt too final, too emotional, too reactive.
I wanted him to have access to me. I wanted him to feel the rising panic of unanswered calls, unanswered texts, and the terrifying realization that his safety net had just vaporized into thin air.
At 1:15 AM, another text popped up.
“Nora, seriously, stop ignoring me. Where are you? The apartment is empty. Your side of the closet is cleared out. What is this?”
I took a slow sip of my wine, picked up my phone, and typed out a single, perfectly measured response.
“Check the kitchen island.”
That was it.
No long paragraph explaining my heartbreak.
No screaming match over text messages.
No emotional plea for him to explain why he chose Ava over our five-year history.
Just five words directing him back to the cold quartz counter where he had so casually discarded our future like a dirty napkin.
Within forty seconds, my phone buzzed violently.
May you like
An incoming call.
I swiped the red reject button with my thumb, silenced the ringer, turned the phone face-down on the coffee table, and went back to my book.
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