June Rainer, Unanswered

Chapter 4: The Version He Told

Owen's message came on Monday, while I was adding workshop dates to the center's calendar.

Owen: I'm sorry this got out of hand. I'm not asking you to move back. I just want us to be able to talk like adults.

I read it twice.

There was no mention of the door he had closed, the days he had gone silent, or the way he had told me I couldn't afford a place without him. But there was an apology, carefully shaped around the part he thought I might accept.

Me: I'm willing to discuss logistics. I'm not ready to talk about the relationship.

He replied with a thumbs-up. I hated that the tiny symbol made my stomach tighten.

That evening, our friends Marcus and Dana invited us both to their house for dinner. Dana texted me privately to ask whether I was comfortable coming. I appreciated the care in the question more than I could say.

"I don't know," I told Tessa. "If I don't go, Owen gets to tell everyone whatever he wants."

"You don't owe anyone a defense."

"I know. I still want to go."

Dana lived two blocks from the center, in a narrow house with a porch that needed new paint. When I arrived, Owen was already there. He stood in the kitchen beside Marcus, holding a glass of soda. He didn't look surprised to see me.

I said hello to everyone. I didn't sit next to Owen.

Dinner began with a conversation about a broken dishwasher and Marcus's new job. For a while, I let myself believe that we could all behave normally.

Then Dana asked, "How are you two doing?"

Owen answered before I could.

"June's been staying with her sister. We had a rough week, and I think she needed to cool off."

"I didn't leave to cool off," I said.

He looked at me. "I didn't mean it that way."

"What way did you mean?"

The table went still.

Owen set his glass down. "I mean, we both got upset. I didn't want to say something I'd regret."

"You didn't say anything. You shut the door and stopped answering me."

His expression shifted, not quite anger, not quite embarrassment. "You called me sixteen times."

The number landed between us like a verdict. I could feel Marcus looking at me. I could feel my own face getting hot.

"I called because you wouldn't tell me whether you were going to speak to me again," I said. "I know sixteen was too many. That part is mine. But it didn't happen in a vacuum."

"I said I needed space."

"You said nothing."

"I sent you a message."

"After I left."

Owen leaned back in his chair. "I don't want to have this conversation in front of everyone."

"Then don't tell the conversation for me."

Dana put her fork down. "Maybe we should take a break."

I stood up. "I'm going to get some air."

On the porch, I stared at the painted railing and tried to breathe evenly. I wasn't proud of calling sixteen times. I had done something I wished I could undo. But I couldn't accept that the number erased everything that came before it.

The door opened behind me. Marcus stepped out, leaving a few feet between us.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"For letting him turn that into the whole story."

"You don't have to agree with me."

"I don't know what happened between you. I know I've seen you check your phone every time he leaves the room."

I swallowed. "I didn't want to be that person."

"You weren't always."

I looked through the window. Owen was talking to Dana now, his hands moving as he spoke. I could see his mouth form my name. I couldn't hear him.

"Did he say I was unstable?" I asked.

"Not those words."

"What words?"

Marcus hesitated. "He said you'd been overwhelmed. That you could get obsessive when you were anxious."

The porch seemed to tilt under my feet.

I had checked Owen's game status because he used silence as a punishment and then told me I was imagining the punishment. I had called because he had left me unable to tell whether we were having a fight or a breakup. Now he had turned my desperate attempt to understand into proof that I was difficult.

"I did call too many times," I said.

"I know."

"I'm not pretending it was okay."

"I know," Marcus said again. "That doesn't mean it explains everything."

When I went back inside, I picked up my coat. Owen didn't follow me out.

At Tessa's house, I deleted the game app from my phone. It wasn't a dramatic act. It took less than a minute.

Then I changed my account password, removed Owen from the shared photo album, and wrote down the name of the therapist my doctor had once recommended. I had been thinking about therapy for months. I wanted a place where I could sort out which parts of our relationship were mine to own and which parts I had been carrying for him.

I booked an appointment for the following Thursday.

The next morning, Dana texted to say she was sorry for how dinner had gone. I thanked her.

Owen didn't contact me.

For once, I didn't treat his silence like a puzzle I was responsible for solving.