When My Boyfriend Let Her Call Him Daddy

The apartment was quiet when I got back from the pharmacy. I'd gone out for bandages. The burn on my arm was healing badly. It itched and wept through the gauze.

Greyson had texted an hour ago. *Stuck at work dinner. Don't wait up.*

I stood in the foyer and listened. No sounds from the guest room. Lina must have taken Andres somewhere.

I walked into the bedroom. The bed was made. Greyson's side was smooth and tight, the way hotels do it. I never made beds like that. Neither did he.

His iPad sat on the nightstand. Black glass. Screen dark.

I stared at it.

I didn't plan what happened next. My hand just moved.

I picked it up. The screen lit. Passcode required.

I thought about his birthday. Our anniversary. His mother's name.

Then I thought about the drawing on the fridge. The jasmine perfume. The way Lina touched his arm in the kitchen.

I typed in six numbers.

Lina's birthday.

The screen unlocked.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Slowly.

The photo library opened. Thumbnail after thumbnail. I scrolled.

There.

Lina on our bed. My bed. She wore silk pajamas. Cream-colored with my initials on the pocket. K.T. Her hair was loose. She smiled at the camera like she owned the room.

I scrolled.

The three of them at a dining table. Candles. Wine. I recognized the restaurant. Greyson had taken me there on my birthday two years ago. Same corner table. Same bottle of Burgundy on the white cloth.

I scrolled.

A pumpkin patch. Andres sitting on Greyson's shoulders. Lina standing beside them, her hand on Greyson's back. All of them laughing.

I scrolled.

Central Park. Greyson pushing Andres on a swing. Lina's head resting on his shoulder. Her eyes closed. His face soft.

I scrolled.

Thanksgiving. A long table. Lina and Greyson at the center. Andres between them. A turkey. Candles. Other people I didn't recognize, smiling at the camera like this was normal. Like this was a family.

I stopped scrolling.

The date on that photo was November twenty-third.

I'd called Greyson that night from London. He'd said he was having a quiet Thanksgiving at home. Ordering in. Watching football.

I looked at the photo again. At the linen napkins. The wine glasses. The pie.

I put the iPad back on the nightstand. I set it at the exact angle I'd found it.

Then I lay down on my side of the bed.

The ceiling was white and blank. I stared at it and felt nothing.

No tears. No rage. Nothing.

Just a cold, clear thought.

I was the only person in this apartment who didn't know the truth.

And now I did.

---

Greyson came home after midnight. I heard his keys in the door. His footsteps in the hall.

He slipped into bed beside me. The mattress dipped.

"You awake?" he whispered.

I didn't answer.

He sighed and rolled onto his back. Within minutes, he was asleep.

I lay there and listened to him breathe.

---

In the morning, I got up before him. I walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

The light was harsh. I blinked and looked around.

Greyson's cologne sat on the shelf. Black bottle. Same one he'd used for years.

Next to it was another bottle.

Small. Glass. Amber liquid.

I picked it up and turned it over.

My perfume.

The one I'd worn since college. The one I bought in a tiny shop in Paris. The one Greyson used to bury his face in my neck and say, "That's you. I'd know it anywhere."

I unscrewed the cap. The scent hit me. Jasmine. Amber. Mine.

The bottle was half empty.

I hadn't brought this from London. I'd left my perfume there.

I stared at the bottle in my hand.

Lina had been wearing my scent.

And Greyson had let her.

Maybe he'd never noticed. Maybe he'd smelled it on her in the hallway, in the kitchen, on the couch, and thought it was me. Thought I was close even when I wasn't.

Or maybe he'd noticed.

And he hadn't cared.

I set the bottle back on the shelf. My hand was steady.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Pale. Tired. A stranger.

I thought about the photos. The Thanksgiving table. The pumpkin patch. The swing in the park.

I thought about the drawing on the fridge. Daddy. Mommy. Me.

I thought about Greyson's face when he'd caught Andres in his arms. The way he'd done it without thinking. Like he'd done it a hundred times.

Because he had.

I turned off the light and walked out.

Greyson was still asleep.

I stood in the doorway and looked at him.

Seven years.

I'd given him seven years.

And he'd built a whole life without me.