Page 24 of Sex, Lies, & Techy Guys (Love on the Sunshine Coast)

“Okay.”

The descriptions and use of emotion fit his style much more than Kyle.

“So let me guess… Kyle controls the technicalities and you actually write it?”

Lance’s smile wavers. “Yeah, we have a system.”

“That’s super cool.” I’d love to read more, but they’re avoiding eye contact.

When they turn down my offer to help with the day’s sightseeing, they insist that some of their exploration needs to be done the way a tourist would do it.

Have I rushed into yet another doomed relationship? I let the rest of the meal pass in silence.

When it’s time for them to leave, they each kiss the top of my head and retreat to their office. They don’t get the door closed all of the way, and I swear Lance says, “We have to get back on the dark web.”

His voice lowers and I’m not sure I heard correctly. What could they possibly need to get on the dark web for? How do you even do that?

There’s commotion, mumbled cursing, then the two of them come from the room, not looking at me.

They’re in a hurry so I decide to bring it up when they get back. “See you later, guys.”

In the midst of doing chores, I’m grabbing all the trash and the crumpled piece of paper at the top of their can catches my attention. Is that their story write up? I uncrumple it and the authors are not Kyle and Lance.

A sinking feeling washes over me even though I’m not entirely surprised. My legs go weak. I sit in one of the desk chairs and survey their bleak set-up. So cold. No tourist brochures. No souvenirs. No marked-up drafts littering their desks.

I have to admit they’ve been lying.

The paper’s only one page, not even a full article. The author is listed as Dan McCann. It could be a pen name. Maybe two guys traveling the world together gives an impression some magazines and readers aren’t ready to accept. It would be the wrong impression anyways, so gayness couldn’t even be used as an inclusivity selling point.

I haven’t exactly been honest about my name, but my entire façade isn’t a lie. Once I prove my innocence, I can tell them who I am, if I ever hear from them again. Chances are, this won’t last any longer than all of the heart-felt commitments made back in high school. I’m so stuck in the past when it comes to dating. But I told myself to move on from that. I let out a big sigh.

My heart aches at the possibility that I’m ignoring a red flag, but it’s such a tangled case of the pot calling the kettle black.

I’ve already snooped too much. I dump the rest of the garbage into the bag and gather the top closed. I don’t want to know information I’m not supposed to. And I don’t want to bite the hand that feeds me…and spanks me.

More importantly, I need to give them a chance to come clean.

Having evidence to force the issue won’t hurt. I pull the crumpled paper out of the bag and set it aside. I wouldn’t have to feel bad about reading it and confronting them if they hadn’t lied. This doesn’t make me a bad person, even if it does make me doubt myself.

Once I’ve rounded up the garbage, I head to my bedroom and retrieve my memory box from the top of my closet. A tri-folded sheet of lined paper sits on top of the happier memories.

I set the box on the bed beside me and toy with one of the worn corners of the paper before unfolding it.

The two solitary words on the page offer no more explanation than they ever have.

I’m sorry

No signature. No explanation. Not even handwriting that I recognize. Specifically not Victor’s, although who else’s could it have been? Is that why I kept the letter? The mystery. The possibility that someday it would make sense.

The hope that if he was truly sorry, he’d come back to me with an explanation of why he shut me out. Why he grew distant. Why he insisted on divorce without even trying to reconcile. And why he would frame me. Talk about things not adding up.

My heart is in my throat. I’d always thought that if I held onto the paper, I could prove I waited for him. But I’m done living in the past.

I received the letter in the mail thirty-seven days after Victor last communicated with me, which was only slightly shorter than the divorce he insisted upon was finalized.

Studying the generic handwriting, it occurs to me that this is the first time I don’t shed a tear when I look at the note. It’s the first time I’m able to accept that Victor is really gone. And if he was the sender of the note, he couldn’t possibly have meant it or he wouldn’t have left my heart in limbo.

I deserve better.

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