Julia Harding's old flame, Oliver Simmons, was back in the country—broke enough that even his family estate was going up for a foreclosure auction.

I asked her if she still loved him. She frowned and told me to stop being ridiculous, said she wasn't that sentimental.

I believed her.

Until her phone lit up in the middle of the night. A bank withdrawal—eight million dollars. I'd seen that figure before. It was the opening bid for Oliver Simmons's old family estate.

She hadn't cheated on me.

She'd just used our marital assets to buy back another man's home.

I sat there holding her phone, waiting for her to wake up, and saw the post Oliver had just put up:

"Some people say goodbye to your face, then quietly hold up the sky for you behind your back."

The photo was the courtyard of the old estate.

And all at once I remembered what Julia had said the day she accepted my proposal:

"I'm the kind of person who only loves once in her life."

So it turned out she'd meant it.

…

Julia's phone lit up again.

A second post from Oliver, this time a carved wooden door, captioned: "Home at last."

I stared at that door.

Last year Julia had taken me to see that old estate. Passed down through the Simmons family for generations, a grand turn-of-the-century mansion, three acres of gardens.

She'd said the house had a story to it, what a shame the Simmons family had fallen.

I hadn't thought much of it then.

Now I understood why she knew it so well.

The living room was dark, the light of the phone screen washing over my face.

I scrolled back through the transfer record. Eight million even, paid to an auction house. And the memo line on the transfer spelled it out, plain as day: "Oliver's House—final payment."

Oliver's House.

She hadn't put this much heart into buying our own home.

There was a rustle from the bedroom. Julia had woken. She came out in her slippers, saw me sitting on the couch, and stopped short.

"Why aren't you asleep?"

I turned the phone around so she could see it.

Julia went still. She stepped over to take it from me, and I pulled my hand back.

"Oliver's old estate—you bought it?"

She didn't answer.

"I asked you something."

"Yes, I bought it." Her voice was very low. "His house was about to go up for foreclosure. I bought it back for him. Don't worry, I'll make the money up from somewhere else. It won't affect the family."

I couldn't help a short laugh. The family? We'd been married three years; her money and mine had stopped being separate a long time ago. And now she was telling me it "wouldn't affect the family"—as if this were something the two of us shared? Eight million dollars, taken just like that, without one word to me?

"When did you decide this?"

"Just… recently."

"Recently?" I glanced at the transfer date again. "Ten days ago. For ten days you've eaten with me, slept beside me, and not breathed a word."

Julia's brow drew together. "I was afraid you'd read too much into it."

"Read too much into what?"

She looked at me for a moment, then let out a sigh. "Theodore Henson, Oliver and I are in the past. He's in trouble now, and I helped him out, that's all. Don't overthink it."

That's all.

Then why write "Oliver's House" on the transfer memo? Why be the first to like his post? Why, the moment he was back in the country, did she already know his family estate was going up for auction?

None of that happens without putting real thought into it.

I didn't say any of it. I said only one thing: "I don't have a problem with you helping him. But you took our shared money to do it and didn't so much as mention it to me. Do you think that's appropriate?"

Julia's expression turned uneasy. She sat down across from me, folded her hands on her knees, and softened her voice. "I was wrong. I should have talked to you first. At the time I just thought I'd win the bid first and explain later, I was afraid someone else would snatch it if I waited. That house means a lot to his family."

"It means a lot to you too, doesn't it?"

She said nothing.

Oliver posted again. A photo grid this time. The living room of the old estate, the study, the gardens, and one shot of himself. No filter, a plain white tee, standing in front of that carved wooden door, looking cool and remote.

The caption read: "Thank you, for being willing to stay when everyone else walked away."

I almost laughed out loud.

That post was meant for Julia. Obviously.

"What's between you and him now?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Julia looked at me. "I told you. I'm just helping him out."

"Then what's that post supposed to mean?"

"How would I know what he means?" There was an edge of impatience now. "Can you stop being so sensitive?"

Sensitive.

The first time she called me sensitive was the day Oliver left the country. She'd had a lot to drink. I asked what was wrong, she said nothing, and when I pushed and asked if it was because of Oliver, she said I was being sensitive.

The second time, we ran into a friend of Oliver's at the mall. The guy smiled and said to Julia, "You know Oliver's back?" and Julia said she knew. When we got home I asked when the two of them had been in touch. She said I was being sensitive again.

This was the third time.

I stood up from the couch and handed her phone back to her.

"If you want to help him this badly, why don't I step aside?"

Julia's head shot up. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like." I looked at her. "The two of you should have ended up together in the first place. If he hadn't insisted on going abroad back then, you'd never have married me. Now he's back, things aren't going well for him, and you feel like you owe him. I get it."

"Theodore—"

"I'm tired. We'll talk tomorrow."

I turned and walked into the bedroom and shut the door.

My hands were shaking. Not from anger. Because I knew I was right. The day Julia proposed, I asked her why she chose me, and she said, "You're suitable." At the time I thought that was just her, never one for pretty words.

Only now did I understand. She really did just think I was "suitable."

Not like Oliver, the one she could never stop thinking about.

My phone buzzed. I picked it up. A message from Julia.

"I only think of Oliver as a friend. If it bothers you, I won't contact him anymore."

I didn't reply.

She sent another. "The eight million was my mistake. Tomorrow I'll move the money into our joint account and treat it as a loan."

Still no reply.

When the third message came through, I turned off the phone.

At some point it had started raining outside. I lay down and stared at the ceiling. Three years ago, when we got married, I thought I was the luckiest man alive.

Julia was beautiful, successful in her career, and thoughtful enough with me. She agreed not to keep flowers, because I'm allergic to pollen. She said she didn't like cats, then kept three for me anyway. She remembered every one of my habits.

I thought it was because she loved me.

Now I wonder if she was just used to being good to someone.

Who that someone was, honestly, didn't matter.

I couldn't sleep, tossing and turning. A little past two in the morning, I got up for a glass of water and saw the living room light still on.

Julia wasn't asleep.

She was sitting on the couch, phone in her hand, the screen still lit. I came closer and saw it was her chat thread with Oliver.

The last message was from him: "Julie, thank you for today. The keys to the old estate—when should I give them to you?"

Sent a minute ago.

Julia hadn't replied yet.

I stood behind her for a long time and she never noticed. In the end I was the one who spoke. "If you want to go see him, then go. You don't have to hide it from me."

Julia spun around, and the phone clattered to the floor.

"When did you get up?"

"Just now. When you were texting him back."

She bent down to pick up her phone, the movement a little frantic. The second she had it, she pressed the power button. The screen went black.

"I wasn't planning to go see him."

"Then why won't you reply to him?"

"I was thinking about how to answer."

"Thinking about how to keep it from me?"

Julia lifted her head and looked at me, the whites of her eyes shot through with red. "Theodore, do you have to talk to me like this?"

"Then how do you want me to talk?" I set my water glass on the coffee table. "You say there's nothing between you and him, but he texts you in the middle of the night and you don't dare answer in front of me. You say the eight million was just a favor, but every post he puts up is thanking you. What am I supposed to think?"

Julia stood up, her voice dropping low. "We've been married three years. When have I ever lied to you?"

"You're lying to me right now."

She said nothing.

I looked into her eyes. "Julia, do you still love him?"

I waited a long time.

Long enough that I thought she wouldn't answer at all.

"I'm not that fickle," she said.

I laughed.

It was a brilliant answer. Not "I don't love him," but "I'm not that fickle." Meaning she had loved him, but didn't now. Or rather, didn't love him quite as much.

But you spend eight million buying back an old estate for a man you "don't love," you stay up half the night waiting for his messages, and that's called "not being fickle"?

I didn't call her out on it. I picked up my glass and went back to the bedroom.

Lying in bed, I heard movement in the living room. She was on the phone, her voice kept low, but I still caught a few words.

"...Keep the keys. I'm not coming."

"It's fine. Don't read too much into it."

"Get some rest."

After she hung up, the living room was quiet for a long while. Then I heard her footsteps come to the bedroom door, pause, and walk away again.

She didn't come in.

I barely slept. Just before dawn, I heard the door close. I got up to look. Julia's car was gone.

Where had she gone?

I checked my phone. Oliver Simmons had posted again, a voice clip this time. I played it.

Her voice had a sob in it. "Julie, are you really not coming? I want to see you."

Posted fifteen minutes ago.

Julia had been gone fifteen minutes.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and all at once it felt absurd. Three years married, and she had never once left in the morning without a word to me. Everything strange she did came back to Oliver.

The phone buzzed again. Not mine. Julia's other phone, the one she'd left behind.

I picked it up and looked.

Over twenty unread messages flashed on the screen, all from Oliver. The latest was a voice clip. I played it.

"Julie, I was the one who wronged you back then. I shouldn't have gone abroad. I regret it, I really do. You still care about me, don't you? Otherwise you wouldn't have bought the old estate."

The clip ended, and right behind it came a text.

"Didn't you say the biggest regret of your life was not holding on to me? I'm back now. Can you... give me one more chance?"

I put the phone down.

The biggest regret of her life.

The day we married, during the wedding toast, she'd smiled and said one thing. "I have no regrets left in this life."

So that hadn't been true.

The doorbell rang.

I went over and opened it. A man stood outside, his eyes red.

Oliver.

He saw me and froze for a second, then forced out a smile. "Theo, is Julia home?"

"No."

"She promised to come help me look over the house today. I've been waiting a long time, and she won't pick up her phone." He glanced past me into the apartment. "Could I come in and wait for her?"