Four Years, and a Group Chat Without Me

The shower was still running when Colin's phone buzzed against the nightstand. I was folding laundry on the bed, sorting his socks from mine the way I had done every Sunday for four years. The screen lit up, then again, then again. I did not mean to look. That was what I told myself later, and it was mostly true. But a phone that buzzes four times in ten seconds pulls your eyes the way a siren pulls your ears. The group name sat at the top: Weekends Without Nora. I stopped folding. The sock in my hand was gray, one of the pairs I had bought him last Christmas because he kept stealing mine. Eight members. I counted twice, because the number did not make sense the first time. Colin. His sister, Dana. His friends Marcus and Pete. My roommate, Alice. My best friend since sophomore year, Jess. And my brother, Ryan. The messages were still coming. Dana: So Saturday at the usual place? She's not coming, right? Jess: She thinks I have to work that day. She won't ask questions. Ryan: sent a laughing emoji. Colin: I'll book the table. Same time as always. I scrolled up. I should not have scrolled up. But my thumb moved on its own, and the screen filled with weeks of messages. Marcus: Nora made that casserole again. Nobody tell her it was terrible. Jess: She spent two hours on it. I felt bad. Dana: You felt bad while eating it, though. Pete: The trick is to eat fast and compliment loud. I remembered that night. I remembered standing in our kitchen, the oven mitts still on, watching Colin take a second helping and tell me it was the best thing he had eaten all month. I remembered feeling proud. The shower cut off. I put the phone down exactly where it had been, screen up, and went back to folding. My hands were steady. I noticed that about myself, and it scared me a little. Colin came out with a towel around his waist, hair dripping. "Hey," he said. "You okay?" "Fine," I said. "Just tired." He kissed the top of my head and reached for his phone. I watched his face as he read. Nothing moved. Not a flicker. Four years of breakfasts and arguments and inside jokes, and he had a face that could do that. "What's up?" I asked. "Nothing. Marcus wants to grab a drink Thursday." "Just Marcus?" "Mmm." He put the phone in his pocket and went to find a shirt. I finished the laundry. I made dinner. I sat across from him at our small table and listened to him talk about a client call, and I said the right things, and I did not mention the group. That night I lay awake next to him and tried to count the number of times I had been in a room with all eight of them at once. Birthdays. A trip to the lake two summers ago. My own birthday dinner, last March, where Jess gave a toast that made me cry. They had all been there. Every one of them. And every one of them had a version of me they talked about when I was not in the room. The worst part was not the messages. The worst part was how good they were at it. Dana's careful question. Jess's easy lie about working. Ryan's emoji, small and harmless, the kind he had sent me a hundred times. I lay there and thought: I have been living in a house with a man who has a whole life I am not invited to. And I did not notice for four years. The next morning, I got up before him. I made coffee. I opened my laptop at the kitchen counter and did something I had never done before. I started keeping a record.