Page 26 of The Check Down

Yet here I am, tucked into a mahogany carrel at the back of Bingham library, knee deep into research on nineteenth-century gender roles. I rub the fatigue from my eyes and close down the document I’ve been working in for the past few hours. After one surreptitious glance around, I open up the folder in my drive labeledOld Syllabiand navigate to the Google doc titledDraig 1.0.

This 72,000-word document has been a bright spot for me over the past year. I’d even go so far as to say that it’s the main source of joy in my life these days.

Until my Tuesday afternoons were booked for the foreseeable future, that is.

I scan the paragraphs I added last week to refresh my memory, then bring my fingers to the keys and start typing. The words flow from me like the current of the mighty river a few miles west of here. I get lost in my imaginary world of knights and faeries and witches and magic. This fictional story of my heart is a retelling of the Arthurian legend, one where the character of Arthur is a fearless young witch named Eleri rather than a king. She discovers her magic when she encounters a mysterious knight named Gethin and his warrior dragon, Aethon.

Just as I get to a long-awaited first kiss scene, my phone buzzes on the table, pulling me back to reality. A quick glimpse out the library’s windows tells me I’ve been in my fantasy land for longer than I intended.

“Shoot.”

Jack

When will you be home? I’m ordering dinner.

I tap out a quick reply and pack up my things.

Twenty-five minutes later, I barrel into the house juggling my purse, laptop satchel, keys, and emotional support tumbler. “Sorry, sorry. Time totally got away from me.”

Jack pauses mid-bite to watch my entrance, but he doesn’t say a word. A paper sack and wrappings from my favorite sandwich spot litter the kitchen table. The scent of the food causes my stomach to churn with hunger.

“Thanks for getting dinner,” I say as I slide into the chair across from him.

His response is a curt nod. Then he’s back to scrolling on his phone.

With a sigh of relief, I unwrap my sandwich, so ready to sink my teeth into the soft bread and turkey and cheese and…pickles?

Pickles. On my sandwich.

I open the sub on the paper wrapping and stare at the slimy green disks that cling to the top half of the bread.

There are six of them.

My whole body tenses.

Across from me, oblivious, Jack crunches on a kettle chip.

For a moment, I consider what I should do from here. Do I yell at him, demand he tell me why, after five years of dating and four under the same roof, our relationship feels more like that of roommates than lovers? Or should I rage at him about Andi-Andrea-whatever-her-name-is until he confesses that she’sthe mystery texter who’s been stealing his smiles lately? Should I break down in tears about thefucking pickleson my sandwich? Maybe hit him with the trifecta, all three at once?

It really doesn’t matter. If I’m being honest with myself, I know none of those reactions will change the reality.

This relationship has run its course. I’m not going to grow old with the man across the table. And I’m tired of pretending.

It’s been a week and a half since I witnessed possible evidence of cheating, and I should’ve confronted him days ago, but I’ve talked myself out of it countless times. Am I willing to throw away a five-year relationship because of a perceived affair? One I don’t have indisputable proof of? Part of me has been convinced that this man—this man I moved to a new city for, whom I’ve shared my life with—would never dothatto me.

Then there’s all the uncoupling logistics. The emotional upheaval of breaking apart a five-year relationship is daunting.

But I can’t put it off any longer.

I wish one of Mom’s crystals was tucked into my pocket. One for summoning courage. Which one would she suggest? Bloodstone, perhaps. No—aquamarine. Even though I don’t believe a pretty rock is that powerful, I’d give anything to have a piece of my parents with me right now.

Instead, I put on my proverbial big girl panties, clear my throat, and take a deep breath. “Jack, I think we should break up.”

His eyes snap to mine, his mouth turned down in confusion. As he processes my words, his brows pull tight, then even out, and his lips roll together, then spread into a thin line. He looks from my face to the table and back again, where his focus falls to my sandwich.

His eyes widen in understanding. “Sorry about the pickles, bun. I think they come on the sandwich.”

I resist the urge to remind him that I’m aware. That I’ve been ordering this sandwich on the app for years. That thecustomizebutton is there for a reason. That he himself has correctly ordered this for me dozens of times.

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