After He Chose His Mistress Over Our Dead Baby

Mason came through the door at nine the next morning. I was sitting at the kitchen table. Still in yesterday's clothes. I hadn't slept.

He set his briefcase down. He didn't look at me right away.

"Rosalia told me something."

I waited.

"She thinks you tampered with the saddle."

The words didn't make sense at first. I heard them. I just couldn't arrange them into anything real.

"What?"

"The riding accident. She thinks you did something to the horse's equipment. Out of jealousy."

I stood up. The chair scraped against the floor. "Mason, I wasn't even there."

"I know."

"I was at work. I have a time card. I have witnesses."

"I know," he said again.

I stared at him. He was straightening his cufflinks. That little tell. That little lie his hands told when his mouth wouldn't.

"So tell her she's wrong."

He looked at me then. His face was blank. Not angry. Not anything.

"It's complicated."

"It's not complicated. I didn't do it."

"The situation is complicated. Given everything that's happening with the family, with the merger, it would be better if you maintained some distance from Carlson events going forward."

I felt something crack. Not loud. Quiet. Like ice under weight.

"Distance."

"Just for now."

"She's lying about me and you want me to disappear."

"I'm asking you to be patient." He picked up his briefcase. "I have a board meeting. We'll talk tonight."

He left.

I stood in the kitchen. The coffee pot was still on from yesterday. The apartment smelled stale. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking.

I sat back down at the table. I didn't move for an hour. Maybe longer. The light through the window changed. I watched it.

I thought about calling him. I thought about showing up at his office. I thought about a lot of things.

I didn't do any of them.

---

The post went up two days later.

I was on my lunch break. Sitting on a crate behind the fish counter. Eating a sandwich I'd made that morning. My phone buzzed. Then it buzzed again. Then it didn't stop.

I opened it.

A text from a number I didn't recognize. Just a link.

I clicked it.

The blog was called Manhattan Murmurs. I'd never heard of it. The post was titled "Carlson Heir's Complicated Personal Situation."

There was a photo of me. Outside the fish market. My apron on. My hair pulled back. I was holding a bag of ice. I looked tired.

The caption read: "Sources close to the Carlson family suggest Mason Carlson's former relationship remains a delicate matter as his engagement to Rosalia Harvey moves forward. Questions have been raised about the nature of recent incidents involving Miss Turner, including last week's unfortunate riding accident."

I read it twice. Then I read it again.

My phone kept buzzing. Messages. Notifications. People I barely knew sending me the link. People I thought were friends going quiet.

Lena came around the corner. She saw my face.

"What happened?"

I handed her my phone.

She read it. Her jaw tightened. She handed it back.

"Call him."

I did. He didn't answer. I called again. Voicemail.

I texted him. "We need to talk."

He replied an hour later. "I saw it. Don't engage. It will pass."

That was it. Four words. Don't engage.

I stared at the screen. I waited for another message. Something more. An explanation. A plan. Anything.

Nothing came.

I put my phone in my pocket. I went back to work. I filleted mackerel for three hours. My hands moved. My brain didn't.

When my shift ended, I checked my messages. Three people I'd considered friends hadn't responded to texts I'd sent days ago. A fourth had blocked me.

I walked home. I passed a newsstand. The Post had a small piece about the Carlson-Harvey engagement. Rosalia in a gown. Mason in a tux. They looked perfect.

I kept walking.

When I got home, I sat on the couch. I pulled out my phone. I opened the blog post again. I read the comments.

"Gold digger."

"Pathetic."

"She should know when to let go."

I closed the app. I set my phone face down on the table.

I looked at my left hand. The silver band caught the lamplight. It looked thin. Cheap. Exactly what it was.

Mason didn't call that night. He didn't call the next day.

He didn't issue a correction. He didn't contact the blogger. He didn't say my name.

The silence was louder than anything he could have said.

I sat in the apartment we'd chosen together. I wore the ring I'd bought for us. I waited for him to defend me.

He never did.