Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Bennett
I'm home early.
Richard had a family thing, so we wrapped up the depositions by four. I texted Hannah to let her know, but she's still at work—her shift doesn't end until six. That gives me time to change out of my suit, maybe start dinner, surprise her when she gets here.
The house feels different now. Warmer. There's a coffee mug in the sink from this morning, her favorite oversized one with the chipped handle. Her shoes are by the front door, kicked off carelessly. A blanket she pulled out last night is still draped over the arm of the couch.
Small things. But they make the space feel lived-in. Like a home instead of just a house.
I loosen my tie as I walk into the kitchen, already thinking about what to make for dinner. Something simple. Pasta, maybe. She mentioned liking?—
Her phone is on the counter.
She must have forgotten it this morning. I glance at it as I pass, not really thinking about it, but the screen lights up with a notification.
New listing: 1br apartment, $1,100/month
I stop.
The notification fades, but another one appears almost immediately.
Price drop: Studio apartment near downtown
Heat crawls up my neck. I stare at the phone like it might explain itself. Maybe she's helping a friend. Maybe she's just browsing out of curiosity. There's got to be a reasonable explanation.
But even as I think it, I know it's not true. Hannah doesn't browse real estate for fun. She doesn't help friends apartment hunt when she's been distracted and distant for over a week.
I pick up the phone. My hands are shaking slightly. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. This is a violation of privacy, of trust. But my fingers are already moving, swiping up before I can stop them.
The screen unlocks—she doesn't have a passcode when she's here, says she trusts me—and I'm staring at her browser.
Zillow. Craigslist. Apartments.com.
Tab after tab after tab.
Studio, $950/month. 45-minute commute.
One bedroom, $1,400/month. Income verification required.
Efficiency apartment, $875/month. Available immediately.
My chest tightens. I scroll through the tabs, my pulse pounding in my ears. There are dozens of them. Some marked as favorites. Some with notes in the margins—too far, too expensive, maybe?
She's been looking for apartments.
Actively. Seriously.
And she didn't tell me.
Maybe she needs help with a deposit. Maybe her landlord raised the rent and she's exploring options. Maybe?—
But the dates on the searches tell a different story. Over a week of this. Daily searches. Favorites saved. She's been planning something, and whatever it is, she kept it from me.
I set the phone down carefully, like if I move too fast something will shatter. My hands are trembling now. I press them flat against the counter, trying to steady myself, trying to think through the panic rising in my throat.
She's leaving.
The thought hits me like a fist to the chest. She's been planning to leave, and she didn't say a word. All those nights she's been distracted, pulling away, insisting she's fine—she's been searching for a way out.
No. That's not—she wouldn't just leave. Not without telling me. Not after everything we've built together. Not after the way she looks at me, the way she fits in my arms, the way she's made this house feel like home.
But the evidence is right there. Dozens of listings. Days, maybe weeks, of searching.
I look around the kitchen. Her coffee mug. The blanket in the living room. Her shoes by the door. All these small pieces of her scattered throughout my house, and she's been planning to take them all away.
My throat feels tight. I can't breathe properly.
I check my watch. 4:47. She gets off at six. That's over an hour. Over an hour of standing here with this knowledge burning a hole in my chest.
I try to distract myself. I pull out ingredients for dinner—pasta, like I'd planned—but my hands won't stop shaking. I set the box down and stare at it. How am I supposed to cook when I can barely think straight?
I walk to the living room. Sit on the couch. Stand up again. Check my watch. 4:52.
The minutes crawl by.
I pick up her phone again. I shouldn't keep looking, but I can't help myself.
I scroll through more listings. She's been thorough.
Studios, one-bedrooms, even a few two-bedrooms that are way out of her price range.
She's been doing the math, trying to figure out what she can afford on her barista salary.
My chest aches. Why didn't she just ask me? Why didn't she tell me she needed help?
Unless she doesn't want my help. Unless she's trying to get away from me.
The thought makes me feel sick.
I set the phone down and run my hands through my hair. Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe there's a perfectly reasonable explanation and I'm spiraling for nothing.
But I've watched her pull away for over a week. I've felt the distance growing between us. And now I know why.
I check my watch again. 5:18.
I pace the kitchen. The living room. Back to the kitchen. I can't sit still. Can't focus on anything except the sound of my own heartbeat and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
What am I going to say to her? How do I even start this conversation?
Hey, I went through your phone and saw you're planning to leave me.
God, that sounds terrible. But what else can I say? Pretend I didn't see it? Let her keep hiding this from me until she's packed and gone?
No. I can't do that. I can't just sit here and watch her slip away without fighting for us.
5:34.
I'm standing at the kitchen window when I hear her car pull into the driveway at 6:15. My whole body tenses. The sound of her door closing. Her keys jingling. The front door opening.
"Bennett?" Her voice is light, easy. "You home?"
I don't answer. I can't. My throat feels too tight. I'm still standing at the counter, her phone in front of me like evidence at a crime scene.
She appears in the kitchen doorway a moment later, still in her work clothes, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She's smiling, but it fades the second she sees my face.
"Hey. What's wrong?"
I pick up her phone and hold it up. "You forgot this."
She blinks, confused, taking a step into the kitchen. "Oh. Thanks. I was looking for that this morning?—"
"Why are you looking at apartments?"
The words come out flat. Emotionless. But inside, I'm falling apart.
Her face goes pale. Her eyes dart from the phone to my face and back again. "What?"
"Apartments, Hannah. Dozens of them." I set the phone down on the counter between us, creating a barrier. "You've been searching for weeks. Were you planning to tell me? Or were you just going to disappear one day?"
"Bennett, I—" She stops, her mouth opening and closing like she can't find the words. Her hands twist together in front of her. "It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" My voice is rising now, the control I've been holding onto for the past hour and a half finally slipping. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been planning to leave without saying a word."
"I wasn't—" She takes a breath, her shoulders rising and falling. "My landlord called. The building's being sold. I have thirty days to move out."
The words hit me like cold water. For a second, I can't process them. "Thirty days."
"Yeah."
Relief floods through me, so intense it makes my knees weak. She's not leaving me. She's not planning to disappear. She just?—
Wait.
"When did you find out?"
She hesitates, and in that hesitation, I see the truth. "A week and a half ago."
The relief evaporates, replaced by something sharper. Hotter. "A week and a half."
"Yes."
A week and a half. She's known for a week and a half, and she didn't tell me. Didn't ask for help. Didn't even mention it. All those nights I asked if she was okay, if something was wrong—she lied to my face.
"Why didn't you say anything?" My voice cracks on the question, and I hate how vulnerable I sound.
"I didn't want to burden you with it." She's defensive now, her chin lifting, her arms crossing over her chest. "It's my problem. I can handle it."
"Your problem." I stare at her, disbelief and hurt warring in my chest. Heat crawls up my neck. My hands grip the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turn white. "Hannah, we've been together for weeks. You've been staying here almost every night. How is this just your problem?"
"Because it is!" Her voice rises to match mine. "It's my apartment, my lease, my responsibility. I didn't want to dump it on you and make you feel like you had to fix it."
"Make me feel—" I break off, running a hand through my hair. The frustration is building, pressing against my ribs. "Do you really think that's what this is about? Me feeling obligated?"
"Isn't it?" She takes a step back, her expression guarded. "You're already doing so much for me, Bennett. Letting me stay here, cooking for me, taking care of me. I didn't want to add one more thing to the list."
"One more thing." The words taste bitter. My chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped a band around it and keeps pulling it tighter. "Is that what you think you are? A burden?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." I step closer, my hands bracing on the counter between us. "You've been lying to me for over a week. Pretending everything's fine when you're falling apart. Do you have any idea how that feels? Watching you pull away and not knowing why?"
Her eyes flash. "I wasn't lying. I was just?—"
"Hiding. You were hiding." My voice drops, quieter now but no less intense. "From me."
"I was trying to handle it myself!" She's shouting now, her composure cracking. "I was trying not to be the needy girlfriend who can't solve her own problems!"
"I don't want you to solve everything yourself!" The words burst out of me, raw and desperate. Heat floods my face. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "I want you to let me in. I want you to trust me enough to tell me when something's wrong."
"I do trust you?—"
"Do you?" I'm staring at her now, searching her face for something, anything that tells me she believes what she's saying.
"Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like you were planning to quietly move out, find some shitty apartment you can barely afford, and just...
what? Keep pretending everything's fine? "
She flinches like I've slapped her. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" My chest is so tight I can barely breathe. "You've been searching for apartments for over a week. You have favorites saved. You've been doing the math, figuring out how to make it work on your own. And you didn't say a word to me."
"Because I didn't want you to feel like you had to save me!" Her voice breaks on the last word, and I see tears gathering in her eyes. "I didn't want you to think I'm some charity case who can't take care of herself."
"That's not—" I stop, forcing myself to breathe. The anger is draining away, leaving only hurt in its wake. "Hannah, I don't think that. I've never thought that."
"Then why do you look at me like that?" Her eyes are bright with unshed tears now. "Like I'm something fragile you have to protect?"
The question stops me cold. "What?"
"You do," she says, her voice shaking. "You look at me like I'm going to break. Like I need you to fix everything for me. And I can't—I can't be that person, Bennett. I can't be someone who needs saving all the time."
"I don't want to save you," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I wonder if they're true. "I just want to help you. There's a difference."
"Is there?" She's backing toward the doorway now, putting distance between us. "Because from where I'm standing, it feels like you want to take care of everything. Like you don't think I'm capable of handling my own life."
"That's not—" I take a step toward her, but she holds up a hand.
"I can't—I can't do this right now."
Panic flares in my chest, sharp and immediate. "Hannah?—"
"No." Her voice is firm, but I can hear the tremor underneath. "I need to go."
"Don't." The word comes out more desperate than I intended. "Please. Let's just talk about this."
"We are talking. And it's not helping." She's already moving, grabbing her bag from where she dropped it by the door. Her hands are shaking. "I just—I need space. I need to think."
"Space." The word feels like a knife sliding between my ribs. "You're leaving."
"I'm going home." She won't look at me. "To my apartment. I need to be alone for a bit."
"Hannah, please." I follow her to the door, my heart racing, my hands reaching for her even though I know I shouldn't. "Don't leave like this. Not when we're?—"
"I have to." She finally looks at me, and the pain in her eyes nearly breaks me. "I'm sorry, Bennett. I just—I can't do this right now."
She's out the door before I can stop her. I hear her car start, the sound of gravel crunching under her tires as she backs out of the driveway.
And then she's gone.
I stand in the doorway, staring at the empty driveway, my chest hollow. The evening air is cool against my face, but I barely feel it.
She left.
I close the door slowly and lean back against it, my legs suddenly unsteady. The coffee mug is still in the sink. Her shoes are still by the door. But the house feels emptier than it ever has before.
I slide down to sit on the floor, my back against the door, and drop my head into my hands.
I wasn't angry about helping her. I wasn't upset about the apartment or the money or any of it.
I was terrified.
Terrified that she was planning to leave. That she didn't need me the way I need her. That I'd fallen completely, irrevocably in love with her, and she was still holding part of herself back.
I thought we were building something. I thought she was letting me in.
But she wasn't. Not really. When it mattered, when she needed help, she shut me out.
Maybe I pushed too hard. Maybe I should have been gentler, should have given her more space to explain before I confronted her.
But God, the thought of her searching for apartments, planning to move out, trying to figure out how to afford some tiny studio on her own when I'm right here—it killed me. It still kills me.
I don't want to save her. I don't want her to be some project I fix.
I just want her to trust me. To believe that when something goes wrong, she doesn't have to face it alone.
Is that too much to ask?
I sit there on the floor for a long time, the house dark around me, replaying the fight in my head.
The way her face went pale when she realized I'd seen the listings.
The way her voice broke when she said she didn't want to be a charity case.
The way she looked at me like I was the one hurting her.
Maybe I was.
Maybe I am.
I don't know anymore.
All I know is that she's not here, and I don't know if she's coming back.
I close my eyes and wonder if this is how it ends. If this is the moment everything we've built starts to crumble.
And I wonder if she's sitting in her apartment right now, wondering the same thing.