June Rainer, Unanswered

I called Owen from the curb outside his office because I had promised myself I would stop after the fifth call, and I had already broken that promise twice. The rain had passed, but the sidewalk still shone beneath the streetlamps. I sat in my car with both hands around my phone, watching the call timer climb. When it rolled to voicemail, I ended the call before the beep. The previous night, Owen had walked out of our kitchen while I was asking him a simple question: whether he had paid the electric bill. He'd said, "Not doing this," and gone into the bedroom. I followed him as far as the hall. "I'm not trying to start a fight," I'd said. He closed the door. That morning, his side of the bed was empty. His work shoes were gone. His coffee mug was on the counter, rinsed and upside down, as if he had left on a regular day and not after refusing to speak to me for twelve hours. My text from 7:14 a.m. still showed as delivered. Are we going to talk about last night? I called once before work. Then again at lunch. Then, after my supervisor let me leave early, I drove to the office where Owen worked as a client-support manager for a software company. I couldn't see his car in the employee lot, but I couldn't be sure it wasn't there. I told myself I was calling because I needed to know whether he was safe. I knew that wasn't the whole truth. On the sixth call, I checked his profile in the co-op game we played together. His status showed nothing. Offline. The little green circle wasn't there. I hated the rush of relief that came with it. At least I had no evidence he was ignoring me in favor of a game. At least I could keep imagining an explanation that didn't make me feel foolish. I called again. On the ninth, the call went straight to voicemail. I lowered my phone and stared through the windshield. A couple crossed the lot under one umbrella, sharing the narrow dry space beneath it. I remembered Owen and me doing that once, outside a grocery store, laughing as he held a paper bag against his chest to keep it from getting soaked. The memory came with such sharp clarity that I almost called him again. Instead, I drove home. Owen's car wasn't in the apartment lot. His boots weren't by the door. The place looked exactly as I had left it that morning: one dish beside the sink, a throw blanket twisted at the end of the couch, my work laptop charging on the dining table. I called twice from the kitchen. Then twice from the living room, as if moving between rooms might improve the reception. On the sixteenth call, the recording said the number I had reached was unavailable. I didn't check the game app. I set the phone down and walked into the bedroom. Owen had a dresser, a closet, and the bottom half of the bathroom cabinet. I had half of everything else. His clothes hung together by color, a carefulness I used to find attractive. My things had spread into the gaps, like I was still visiting. I pulled a suitcase from under the bed. The zipper caught on a thread. I tugged harder. It opened with a c***k that sounded too loud in the quiet apartment. My hands began to shake, so I sat on the edge of the mattress and took a photograph of the room. I didn't know why. Maybe because I wanted to remember what it looked like before I started removing my life from it. Maybe because some part of me had finally stopped looking for proof on Owen's screen and started looking at what was in front of me. My own face in the mirror was pale and tired. I had spent two days waiting for him to decide that I was worth speaking to. I opened my contacts and called my sister, Tessa. She answered on the second ring. "Hey. Are you okay?" "No," I said. "Can I stay with you for a while?" There was a brief pause, then the sound of her shifting, as if she had stood up. "Of course. What happened?" "Owen isn't talking to me." "Again?" I looked down at the open suitcase. The word again made everything feel suddenly plain. "Yeah," I said. "Again." "I'll make up the guest room." I packed enough for three days. Then I packed enough for a week. I left Owen's things where they were. I left the spare key on the counter and took photographs of that, too. At the door, I looked back once. My phone stayed dark in my hand. For the first time, I didn't feel tempted to wake it up.