26. Ramona
— ? —
Ramona
Julius stays beside me on the treatment-room bench while I read the message again. My notebook is still between us, where I put it after we looked at the photograph of his truck.
“You told me about the horse.” I keep the phone against my palm. “Seeing somebody use that night to humiliate me is different.”
“I know it is.” He looks at the notebook instead of trying to move it.
I look toward the shelf we’ve just put up. There’s a pencil mark beneath it where Julius checked the height with me. Before his phone started vibrating, I kissed him beside that shelf.
“I was happy with you this morning.” I press my thumb into the phone case. “You’d already told me. I’m still sitting here wondering what else is going to show up on a stranger’s screen before you tell me yourself.”
His shoulders lower, but he doesn’t answer with another promise.
I scroll back to the first screenshot.
“Start with the first one.” I hold the screen between us. “Don’t tell me what would make me feel better.”
He reads before pointing to the message about waiting until I’m asleep.
“I remember saying that.” He moves his hand back into his lap. “And the one about missing riding without seeing you scared.”
I open that image and make it larger.
Julius: Sometimes I miss being able to get on without seeing how scared she is.
My eyes keep returning to the word she.
“You were talking about me as if I was ruining it for you.” I lower the phone, then bring it back up because I want him to keep reading.
“I was making it easier for her to agree with me.” He watches my face. “I gave her my frustration and left out what you’d done to support me.”
I pull my sleeve over my fingers before moving to the next image.
The message says he’s sitting in the truck because he isn’t ready to go inside. I can’t tell which night it was, and that makes me look toward the open door.
“I could have been waiting for you.” I turn back to him. “You could have seen the lights on.”
“I was in our driveway.” He takes a breath before continuing. “I remember writing it there.”
I get up, leaving the notebook on the bench. There isn’t enough room to pace without stepping over the tools, so I stand beside the unfinished sink.
Julius stays seated until I turn toward him.
“Bring your phone over.” I hold mine where he can see it. “I want to go through this properly.”
***
We use the workbench because it’s the only clear surface in the room. Julius moves the drill and its case, then puts his unlocked phone beside mine.
He doesn’t take either one when I start opening the images again.
“This one says your marriage made your life smaller.” I turn toward him. “Did you write that?”
“I don’t remember ever saying that.” He reads the screen, his jaw tightening. “I don’t believe I wrote it.”
“You don’t believe you did, or you didn’t?” I keep my finger beside the words.
“I didn’t write that sentence.” He looks directly at me. “I know I said ugly things about feeling stuck. I’m not denying those because I don’t recognize this one.”
I study the image. The message looks exactly like the ones he’s already admitted sending.
“How am I supposed to tell the difference?” I put the phone down before I drop it.
“You can’t from this picture.” He stays on the other side of the bench. “I deleted what we needed to compare it with.”
I close my eyes briefly. When I open them, he is still watching me instead of his phone.
We tried to get it back after I asked him.
It was on his personal phone, and he deleted it before he got into the truck that night, while I sat there with the candy bag in my lap waiting for him.
By the time I asked him to try, the folder it went to had emptied itself and the backup had run without it.
His work phone still had her questions about horses, and I read every one of them.
The carrier gave him a list of dates and times.
“Ben said she didn’t even look at her phone before she told him she’d deleted her side.” I keep my finger beside the words. “Do you think she has?”
“I don’t know.” He doesn’t look away. “I hope not. I’d rather you had something to read than nothing.”
“Tell me about the messages where you ended it.” I open the screenshot that shows him thanking Dakota for helping him. “What came after this?”
“I told her I needed to talk to my wife about those things.” He points to the bottom of the image, where the conversation ends. “I told her we could work together, but I needed to keep my evenings for you.”
I remember him saying that when I first confronted him about deleting the thread. He doesn’t add a better line now or make himself sound firmer.
“That was your answer when I asked before.” I look at him.
“It’s what I remember writing.” He lowers his hand. “I wish I could put it in front of you.”
“So do I.” I turn the phone over, needing a moment without the words.
Outside, a truck stops beside the pens. I hear a hand ask where the new bedding should go, then another person answer him.
The work continues while I stand in the room Julius helped me build, wondering how many evenings he sat outside our home talking to her.
“You haven’t answered the question about last night.” I turn the phone back over and open the image.
Julius: I can’t stop thinking about last night.
Julius leans closer to read it without touching the screen.
“I don’t remember that message.” He looks up at me. “There’s no date here to help me place it.”
I swipe to the one beneath it and hold it where he can’t look away.
Julius: She doesn’t know. She can’t know.
“And this.” I keep my voice level. “What couldn’t I know?”
“I don’t remember it, and I’ve been through every night I can name.” He doesn’t blink. “There wasn’t a night when we kissed or slept together. I hid the conversations. I’m not denying that. I can’t prove the rest from a picture. I can only tell you.”
“Not once?” I ask before I can make the question gentler.
“Not once.” He keeps his hands flat against the bench.
“Did you want to?” I wait while he looks down.
“I liked being with her more than I should have.” He lifts his eyes again. “I looked forward to her messages. I kept finding reasons to stay after we’d finished working.”
My mouth starts shaking, and I put my fingers against it until I can speak.
“That isn’t a no.” I lower my hand.
“I know.” He swallows, his throat moving beneath his collar. “I can’t tell you I felt nothing and expect you to believe the rest.”
I turn toward the doorway because I don’t want him seeing what that answer does to me. He stays where he is, and I have to grip the frame to keep from asking him to hold me.
You asked for the truth. You still get to hate hearing it.
When I come back, he slides his phone closer.
“You can look through it.” He meets my eyes. “I can stay, or I can wait outside.”
“I want you nearby.” I pick it up before he can move. “I don’t want to have to find you when I have a question.”
“I’ll be right outside the door.” He takes his hat from the bench. “You’ll be able to see me.”
***
I don’t find a complete answer in his phone.
I check the remaining conversations, then the photographs around the dates visible in the screenshots.
There are pictures of horses and messages asking when he’ll be home.
One of mine has a photograph of a dinner I made before I realized he was staying at the barn, and his answer says it looks good.
I put the phone down for a moment.
Through the open door, Julius stands beside the fence with his hat in his hands. A man approaches carrying a folder, but Julius shakes his head and points toward the main barn, and the man leaves with it.
I pick up the phone again and keep looking.
When I finally call his name, he turns before I finish.
“I didn’t find another conversation with her.” I hand him the phone when he reaches the doorway. “That doesn’t tell me what was in the one you deleted.”
“I know it doesn’t.” He puts it into his pocket without checking what I left open.
“I want to believe you about the messages you don’t recognize.” I lean against the workbench, too tired to keep standing straight. “But I wanted to believe you when you told me the horse needed you, too.”
He nods slowly.
“I don’t know how to give you certainty.” He stays near the door. “I can answer until you’ve asked everything you need to ask.”
“I might ask the same thing again.” I fold my arms, watching him.
“Then I’ll answer again.” He doesn’t glance toward the yard.
I pick up my notebook and bag.
“I’m going to the cottage.” I move past him, then stop before he can offer to drive me. “I want to walk.”
He steps aside and lets me leave.
I’m halfway to the gate when my phone vibrates. For a moment, I think it will be another screenshot, but Dad’s name is on the screen instead.
Dad: I’m here when you want to talk. You don’t have to explain tonight.
I hold the phone against my chest while I keep walking.
At the gate, another message arrives from a woman I used to sit beside at rodeos. She has sent the link without a greeting, and under it, she has written that she had no idea.
I stand with my key in the lock and look back toward the barn. Julius is still in the doorway, watching to make sure I get inside.
I was trying to decide whether I believed my husband. Now everybody we know has an opinion.