He Stripped Off His Ring So I Stripped Him of Everything

"You're going to wear a hole in that plastic if you don't stop," Grace said, gesturing toward my hand.

I looked down. I hadn't realized I was doing it again. My thumb was rhythmically flicking the tiny compass attached to Ryan's car keys. The needle spun in circles, never quite finding North in the flickering orange light of the dying fire.

"It's a cheap gift," I said, my voice sounding thinner than I wanted. "I got it for him last year. For our anniversary trip."

"And he's still not back to claim it." Grace leaned back in her own folding chair, her eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the festival grounds. "It's been over an hour, Michelle. The last set ended at midnight. Even the roadies are starting to pass out."

I forced a smile, though it felt like my skin was made of dry parchment. "He probably ran into someone from the sound crew. You know how Ryan is. He can't walk past a tangled cable without offering to fix it."

"He's a saint," Grace muttered, though her tone suggested she thought he was something else entirely. "But even saints get tired. Are you sure he didn't head back to the trailer without you?"

"He left his keys here, Grace. On my lap. He wouldn't just leave me sitting by a pile of ash without a way to get inside."

"The door is unlocked, isn't it?"

"That's not the point."

I gripped the keys tighter. The metal bit into my palm, a sharp, grounding sting. Around us, the festival was exhaling. The thumping bass that had vibrated through our marrow for three days had finally ceased, replaced by the low murmur of distant voices and the occasional clink of a glass. The fire in front of us was a heap of glowing red eyes, winking out one by one.

"Go find him," Grace said softly. "You're vibrating. I can feel it from here."

"I'm not vibrating. I'm cold."

"You're a terrible liar. You've looked at that empty chair twenty times in the last ten minutes. Just go to the RV. If he's there, tell him I'm stealing his beer as a penalty for being a flake."

I stood up, the joints in my knees popping. "He's not being a flake. He's being helpful."

"Whatever helps you sleep, honey." Grace waved a hand, dismissing me. "I'll stay here and make sure the fire doesn't decide to stage a comeback."

I turned away from the warmth, stepping into the cool, damp air of the valley. My boots crunched over the flattened grass, the sound amplified by the sudden stillness of the camp. I kept my eyes on the ground, navigating by the dim glow of the solar-powered stakes some of the more organized campers had put out.

*He's just helping,* I told myself. *He's probably backstage, hauling an amp or sharing a final drink with the tech guys.*

The thought should have been comforting. Ryan Coleman was the guy everyone liked. He was the one who stopped to help strangers change tires in the rain. He was the one who stayed late to clean up after the neighborhood association meetings. Being his wife meant sharing him with the world, and usually, I didn't mind.

But the empty chair felt different tonight. It felt heavy.

I reached our trailer, a modest silver bullet parked near the edge of the woods. The windows were dark. I climbed the two metal steps and tried the handle. It turned with a soft click.

"Ryan?" I whispered into the shadows.

Silence. The air inside smelled of stale coffee and the lavender sachets I tucked into the pillows. I didn't turn on the light. I didn't need to. The small space was clearly empty. The bed was still made, the sheets pulled tight and undisturbed.

I stepped back outside, pulling the door shut behind me. My heart gave a strange, erratic thump against my ribs.

"He's not here," I muttered to the trees.

I looked toward the main stage area. It was dark, the massive rig silhouetted against the starlight like a skeletal beast. If he were helping there, I'd see flashlights. I'd hear the clatter of road cases.

Instead, I heard a laugh.

It was faint, coming from the row of high-end RVs parked fifty yards away. Those weren't for the regular campers; they were the "Artist Circle" rentals, the ones with the satellite dishes and the tinted windows.

I started walking toward the sound. I told myself I was just taking the long way back to Grace. I told myself I wasn't looking for anything.

The laughter came again. It was a woman's voice—bright, melodic, and entirely too loud for three in the morning. It was the kind of laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone who had never been told to be quiet in her life.

I stopped behind a large oak tree, the rough bark scraping against my shoulder. Two rows over, a vintage RV—one of those restored cream-and-teal models—glowed with a soft, amber light from within. The door was cracked open just a few inches, allowing a sliver of warmth to spill onto the grass.

"You really shouldn't be doing that," the woman said. Her voice was muffled, but the teasing lilt was unmistakable.

"Doing what?" a man replied.

The blood in my veins seemed to turn to slush. I knew that voice. I knew the way it dipped low when he was being playful. I knew the specific vibration of it.

"Being so helpful," she said, followed by another trill of laughter. "I could have handled that zipper myself, you know."

"It looked stuck," Ryan said.

I moved closer, my feet moving of their own accord. My brain was screaming at me to stop, to turn around, to go back to the fire and wait for him to come to me with a plausible lie. But my hands were already reaching for the side of a neighboring trailer to steady myself.

"Is that your excuse for everything?" she asked. "That it looked stuck? That it needed fixing?"

"I have a thing for fixing things," he said.

I could see them now through the gap in the door. Ryan was standing with his back to me, his broad shoulders blocking most of the view. He wasn't wearing his flannel shirt anymore. He was in his white undershirt, the one I'd bleached just last week.

A woman was sitting on the edge of the small kitchenette counter. She was young, her hair a messy pile of dark curls, her eyes bright with something that looked like triumph. She reached out, her fingers grazing the line of Ryan's jaw.

"And what about your wife?" she whispered. "Does she need fixing?"

Ryan didn't pull away. He didn't move at all.

"Michelle is... Michelle is fine," he said. The way he said my name—like it was a chore he had finally finished—made me feel like I was disappearing. "She doesn't need much of anything."

"That sounds boring," the woman murmured. She leaned forward, pulling him closer by the loops of his jeans. "I need a lot of things, Ryan."

I looked down at the keys in my hand. The little compass was still there, the needle vibrating as my hand began to shake. I had spent the last hour worrying if he was hurt, if he was overworked, if he was lost.

He wasn't lost. He knew exactly where he was.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to storm up those steps and throw the keys at his head. I wanted to see the look on his face when his "fine" wife caught him "fixing" a stranger's zipper in the middle of the night.

But my throat felt like it had been sewn shut. I stayed in the shadows, my lungs burning with every shallow breath.

Inside the RV, the woman whispered something I couldn't hear, and Ryan leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. The amber light caught the wedding band on his finger—the gold matching the one on my own left hand.

"We should probably get back," Ryan said, though he didn't move to leave.

"In a minute," she replied, her voice dropping to a sultry hum. "Just one more thing that needs your attention."

She reached up, her hands sliding behind his neck, and pulled him into the shadows of the RV's interior. The door swung shut with a soft, final thud, leaving me alone in the dark.

The silence that followed was louder than any music I'd heard all weekend. It was a ringing, hollow sound that filled my ears until I couldn't think. I looked at the empty grass where the light had been, then down at the keys.

The compass had finally stopped spinning. It was pointing directly at the closed door.

I didn't move. I couldn't. I just stood there, clutching the keys to a car I no longer wanted to ride in, listening to the quiet of the woods and the sound of my own heart breaking in the dark.

How long had this been going on? How many "speakers" had he helped move? How many "cables" had he untangled while I sat by the fire, bragging about his kindness to anyone who would listen?

The betrayal wasn't just in the kiss I knew was happening behind that teal door. It was in the way he had spoken my name. *Michelle is fine.*

I wasn't fine. I was the furthest thing from fine.

I turned around, my movements stiff and mechanical. I didn't go back to Grace. I didn't go back to our trailer. I walked toward the edge of the camp, toward the dark line of the trees where the festival lights couldn't reach.

Every step felt like I was walking on broken glass, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stay here. I couldn't be the woman waiting in the empty chair anymore.

As I reached the tree line, I heard the RV door creak open again.

"Ryan?" the woman called out, her voice playful. "You forgot something."

I didn't look back. I didn't want to see what he'd forgotten. I just kept walking into the black, the keys still clenched so tight in my fist that I could feel the metal beginning to draw blood.

Behind me, the festival was dead. And as I stepped into the woods, I realized that the Michelle who had sat by that fire an hour ago was dead, too.