10. Timothy
— ? —
Timothy
Three nights on the floor.
Three nights of lying on hotel carpet, listening to Victoria breathe on the other side of two feet of empty air. Three nights of replaying every mistake.
She always understood.
That was the problem.
She understood so well that she eventually stopped expecting anything from me at all.
I’d spent five years teaching her that I wouldn’t show up.
Five years of conditioning her to lower her expectations, to stop hoping, to accept nothing.
And now I was here, on the floor of a resort in Mexico, watching her slip further away and knowing that every inch of distance between us was something I’d built.
The math was brutal.
Roughly 1,800 nights of marriage. How many had I spent in a boardroom chair instead of beside her? How many times had I chosen a spreadsheet over her voice, a client call over dinner, a meeting over showing up?
She was right there, I thought. On the other side of a door I never opened.
***
I thought about it sometimes. Our fifth anniversary. The Henderson deal.
I’d known about the dinner. Known about the reservation at the restaurant she’d spent weeks choosing. She’d reminded me twice that week, and I’d put it in my calendar, and then the meeting ran late.
Henderson wanted to keep talking.
I’d looked at my watch. Seen 8:15. Thought about Victoria waiting at the table.
And I’d made a choice.
I told myself she’d understand. Told myself I’d make it up to her. Told myself the Henderson deal was important - worth millions - and she would see that, she would appreciate that, she would forgive that.
I never made it up to her.
I never even apologized.
That was the night she started leaving me, I realized now. Not the night she packed her bags - the night I looked at an anniversary dinner and decided it could wait.
***
I watched her at breakfast that morning with her cousins.
She was laughing at something. Really laughing. Her whole face transformed, her eyes bright, her shoulders relaxed in a way they never were when she was with me.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made her laugh.
Couldn’t remember when she’d stopped trying to tell me about her day, and I’d never noticed the stopping.
I wanted her so badly it embarrassed me.
Her shoulder in that yellow sundress undid me more than anything else ever had. The curve of her neck. The way she tilted her head when she listened. I’d spent five years surrounded by this woman, and I’d never once learned to see her.
And I’d never once told her.
That was the whole crime.
***
I stepped outside for air after breakfast.
The loading dock behind the kitchen was quiet. Service staff moving in and out, but no family, no performance. I leaned against the wall and let myself breathe.
“Trouble in paradise, Timothy?”
Michelle’s voice came from somewhere behind me.
I turned. She was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I’d learned to recognize. The one she’d worn in the library that night. The one that said she saw something she wanted and didn’t care who it belonged to.
“I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“Aren’t you?” She pushed off the wall, moved closer. “And here I thought you fired me to save something. But from what I heard last night, there’s not much left to save.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides.
“There’s nothing between us. There was never anything between us. And if you say one word to Victoria or anyone else in this family-”
“You’ll what?”
She stepped closer. Into my space. Close enough that anyone watching might think-
I raised my hand to push her back.
Victoria rounded the corner.
She stopped dead.
I saw what she saw: Michelle and me, close together. My hand raised like I was reaching for her.
Too far to hear what we were saying.
Close enough to misread everything.
The color drained from Victoria’s face.
She turned and walked away.
***
Victoria
The bathroom door locked behind me.
My hands were shaking.
I gripped the edge of the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Same face I’d seen that morning. Same woman who’d been starting - God help me - to believe him.
Close together. His hand raised. Michelle looking at him like-
I couldn’t finish the thought.
I’d seen what I’d seen. At the anniversary party. In the library. Michelle’s hands on his chest, leaning in to kiss him. And now this. Now them together on the loading dock, close enough to touch, while I’d been laughing with my cousins like everything was fine.
He said he pushed her away.
He said nothing happened.
But they keep finding each other.
I didn’t call a lawyer. Didn’t google divorce attorneys. I just stood there, forehead against the cool tile, and let myself feel it: the jealousy I had no right to, the fury I couldn’t aim at anyone but myself, the horrible dawning possibility that I was still in love with him and it didn’t matter.
I’d told him it was over.
I’d meant it.
But I hadn’t filed. Hadn’t even looked up what filing required.
Because you’re not ready to make it real.
I hated myself for that.