Payton Moormeier

It all happened on a Friday. Jay and I went out of town for the weekend, rented a house by the lake. I thought it would be romantic, a reset, a chance to be alone together. But he was just waiting for me to fall asleep so he could text someone. I found the messages, and he didn't even try to deny it. He said, "Well, yeah, it happened. So what?"

I packed my things and left by taxi that same evening. He didn't even call, he just let me go, as if I meant nothing.

Now I'm standing at the door of his house, clutching the keys and feeling anger boiling inside. He's not answering his calls, but I know he's here. I'll go in, grab my things, and leave. Forever.

The door opens and instead of Jay, his father, Peyton, stands on the threshold.

Tall, in a gray T-shirt, with tattoos on his arms and a frowning gaze, he looks down at me like I'm an uninvited guest, and I feel small, stupid, uninvited—like someone who has come with the wrong thing.

"What have you come for?" he asks, not letting her through.

— Get your things. Is Jay home?

• No.

• Where is he?

• I'm his father, not his secretary.

I try to squeeze past him, but he blocks the passage.

“Let go,” I say. “I need to get my things.”

He steps aside, and I enter the house. It smells of men's perfume and tobacco. There's a cup of cold coffee on the table. Papers are scattered everywhere.