June Rainer, Unanswered

Chapter 2: The App I Didn't Open

I stayed at Tessa's for four nights.

She lived in a small yellow house on the edge of Bellwether, where the sidewalks buckled beneath old trees and every third neighbor seemed to own a dog with a personal opinion about the mail carrier. Her guest room had a quilt from our grandmother and a desk crowded with bills, art supplies, and a mug full of pens that didn't work.

I slept badly the first night. I woke at 2:11 a.m. and reached for my phone before I was fully awake.

No message from Owen.

The game app was one swipe away. I knew what I would find if I opened it. Maybe his status would be visible. Maybe I'd see the icon beside his username and know he had been online. That small square had become my nightly witness, a way to turn his silence into something I could measure.

I put my phone on the desk and went back to bed.

At breakfast, Tessa slid a plate toward me. "Did you hear from him?"

I shook my head.

"Do you want to?"

"I don't know."

"That's fair."

I had expected her to tell me to block him, or to remind me that I deserved better. Instead, she buttered her toast and let the quiet sit between us. I was grateful. I didn't want to be pushed into being brave before I understood what I was afraid of.

My phone buzzed just after nine.

Owen: I need space. Stop calling me.

I read it twice. The first time, I felt relief that he was alive. The second time, I noticed the order of the sentences. He had answered none of my questions. He hadn't asked where I was. He had simply taken my sixteen calls and made them the problem.

Tessa watched my face. "What did he say?"

I handed her the phone.

She read the message and gave it back without comment.

I began typing. I stopped. I typed again.

Me: I'm safe. I'm staying with Tessa. We can talk when you're ready to have a real conversation.

I stared at the words, wondering whether "when you're ready" sounded too accommodating. I wondered whether saying nothing would sound punishing. Even away from him, I was arranging my thoughts around what Owen might think of them.

I deleted the message.

Then I wrote:

Me: I'm safe. I won't call again. Please text me about the apartment and the lease.

I sent it before I could revise it into an apology.

He didn't reply.

I kept my phone in my pocket while I went to work. My job was at the Bellwether Community Arts Center, a converted brick building with a leaky roof and more paint-covered tables than chairs. I coordinated workshops and handled the center's newsletter. That afternoon, I answered emails about a children's pottery class and helped a volunteer find the folding easels. I made it through two hours without checking Owen's status.

The habit returned in the parking lot.

I sat in my car and opened the game app. My thumb hovered over our shared group. The thought that Owen might be there, active, laughing with people who hadn't spent two days waiting for him to talk, sent heat up my neck.

I closed the app.

My phone buzzed before I started the engine.

Owen: I'll be home tonight. We need to discuss the apartment.

I called Tessa to tell her. She said she could come with me if I wanted someone there.

"I don't want a witness," I said. "I want to know what he's going to say."

"Those aren't always different things."

"I know."

We agreed I would text her when I arrived and when I left. That was enough.

Owen was in the kitchen when I let myself into the apartment. His hair was damp, and his gray work shirt was tucked neatly into his jeans. He had put out two mugs on the counter.

"I made coffee," he said.

I nearly laughed. It was the first thing he had said to me in four days.

"I'm not staying," I said.

His gaze moved to the duffel in my hand. "You moved out?"

"I'm staying with Tessa."

"You could have told me."

"I did. I said I was safe and asked about the apartment."

"I was at work."

"I didn't ask you to answer immediately."

He took a breath and reached for one of the mugs. "I needed space after the way you came at me."

"The way I came at you?"

"You called sixteen times."

I set my duffel down. I could feel my heart starting to race, but I kept my hands at my sides. "I called because you shut the bedroom door on me and wouldn't tell me whether you were going to talk to me."

"You could have waited."

"I did wait. I waited all night."

He looked into his coffee. "You always make everything a crisis."

There it was. The sentence I knew how to fight and, somehow, still didn't know how to answer.

I took the apartment key from my pocket and set it on the counter. "I came to get my work clothes."

"You're making a big decision because of one argument."

"I'm making a decision because this isn't one argument."

He looked up then. I saw his jaw tighten. I saw his fingers close around the mug. I didn't know what he was thinking, and I didn't need to know. I only needed to hear what he said next.

"You're not going to find a place you can afford on your own," he said.

I picked up my duffel. "I know what I can afford."

I left before he could decide whether to soften the sentence.