I Pretended to Cheat So My Boyfriend Wouldn't Watch Me Die

The hotel room was silent. Rain drummed against the window. I sat on the edge of the bed in the ruined dress. The fabric stuck to my thighs. Cold. Wet. The hem left a dark stain on the beige carpet.

I didn't move for a long time.

Then I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up. Contacts. I scrolled past names I hadn't called in months. Past Lucien's number. Past the Bells. I stopped at a name I'd kept for years and never dialed.

Dallas Murray.

My thumb hovered over the call button. I pressed it before I could think.

Two rings.

"Raina Bell." His voice was steady. Unsurprised.

"You knew it was me," I said.

"I've had your number saved since Exeter."

I closed my eyes. "Are you always this honest?"

"With you? Yes."

Silence stretched between us. Not uncomfortable. Just there.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

The question cracked something open. "No."

"Where are you?"

I told him. Hotel name. Room number. The words came out flat.

"Have you eaten today?"

I tried to remember. Couldn't. "No."

"Okay," he said. Just that. Then: "I'll call you back in five minutes."

He hung up.

I sat there holding the phone. The dress dripped onto the carpet. I should shower. Change. Do something.

I didn't move.

Four minutes later, my phone buzzed. Dallas: *Food's on the way. Twenty minutes.*

I stared at the message. Typed: *You didn't have to do that.*

His reply came fast: *I know.*

Twenty-three minutes later, someone knocked. I opened the door in the hotel robe. A delivery driver handed me a bag. The restaurant name printed on the side made me stop.

I knew this place. I'd mentioned it once. Three years ago at an alumni reunion. Someone asked where I'd eaten that week and I'd said the name. Once. In passing.

Dallas had remembered.

I set the bag on the desk. Opened it. Pasta. The kind I'd ordered that night three years ago. Bread. Sparkling water.

I sat down. Ate slowly. The food was warm. Real. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd tasted anything.

My phone rang. Dallas again.

"Did it arrive?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Good."

I swallowed. "How did you remember?"

"I remember everything you've ever told me, Raina."

I set down my fork. "Why?"

"Because you're worth remembering."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

"Eat," he said quietly. "Then sleep. Call me tomorrow if you want."

He hung up before I could respond.

I finished the pasta. Drank the water. Then I sat at the desk and stared at my phone for a long time.

The next morning, I called him.

It became a pattern. Every day. Sometimes twice. Conversations that stretched longer than either of us planned. He asked what I was reading. I told him about the novel on my nightstand. He said he'd read it in college. We argued about the ending for twenty minutes.

He didn't ask about Lucien. Didn't ask about the gala. Didn't ask about Connecticut or the three months or the lie.

He asked if I'd seen the new exhibit at the Met. If I still drank tea at night. If I remembered the winter we both got snowed in at Exeter and spent six hours in the library because nowhere else was open.

I remembered.

Two weeks in, he said: "My house in Seattle is too big for one person."

I was walking through Central Park. The phone pressed to my ear. "How big?"

"Too big," he said. "I'm not sure why I built it this size."

I stopped walking. Watched a jogger pass. A dog off its leash. "Maybe you were planning for something."

"Maybe."

Neither of us said anything else. But I heard it anyway.

Mrs. Bell called that afternoon. Third time in two weeks.

"Raina, darling." Her voice was warm. Unfamiliar. "How are you feeling?"

I sat on a park bench. "Fine."

"I've been worried. You haven't been returning my calls."

I'd returned exactly one. "I've been busy."

"Of course. Of course." She paused. "I'm sending you something. A cashmere scarf. No reason. I just thought of you."

No reason. I pressed my thumbnail into my finger.

"That's kind of you," I said.

"We should have lunch soon. Catch up properly."

"Maybe."

Another pause. Longer this time. "I heard you've been speaking with Dallas Murray."

There it was.

"Yes," I said.

"He's doing very well. The Murray portfolio is quite impressive. Your father and I were just saying—"

I hung up.

The phone buzzed immediately. Mrs. Bell calling back. I declined it. She called again. I turned off my phone.

Then I sat on the bench and watched the park move around me. Joggers. Dogs. People who had places to be.

I stayed until the light changed. Until the shadows stretched long and the benches emptied.

Then I walked back to the hotel. Alone. The word didn't feel as heavy as it used to.