Ben sat in silence, hands folded, waiting for me to say something. “Ninety-two miles,” he finally said. “I checked the route to the hotel where you claimed to stay while ‘helping your sister move.’ That’s exactly the mileage on the receipt. Tyler?” It wasn’t a question anymore — it was a statement. I just nodded, because I couldn’t speak.
“Eight years,” he said, staring out the window. “I’m trying to figure out what any of it was worth.” I told him the marriage had been real, and that what I did wasn’t because he wasn’t enough — I’d just gotten lost, and instead of talking to him, I chose the easiest escape. “Four months, Jess. Every other week. That’s not ‘getting lost.’ That’s a choice you kept making, over and over” — and he was right.
He asked me to leave that same night — not because he’d decided everything, but because he couldn’t sit across from me anymore. It’s been three weeks since then, and we only communicate through lawyers now. Tyler never called either — turns out neither of us was really looking for a relationship. We were both looking for an exit that didn’t require honesty. For the first time in a year, I’m not lying to anyone — not even myself.
