I had quit asking when their relationship had really begun.
He was no longer my problem.
At least, that was what I had been telling myself.
Then Mark handed Vanessa a tall brass lamp.
I recognized it from his old apartment.
He hauled a huge television out of the back of the truck.
More boxes followed.
KITCHEN.
BOOKS.
Then one enormous carton labeled:
MASTER BEDROOM.
Rachel stared at the screen.
“They’re moving in.”
“I can see that.”
The house wasn’t even ready for me to move into yet.
The floors had only just been sanded.
Painters were coming Tuesday.
Most of my belongings were still in storage.
Apparently, Mark had decided to beat me to my own moving day.
Then he headed for the side entrance.
I leaned closer to the screen.
That door had a keypad lock so contractors could come and go.
Mark didn’t knock.
He didn’t hunt for a hidden key.
He walked straight up to the keypad.
Pressed four numbers.
The light flashed green.
Click.
Rachel turned to me.
“He knows your code.”
I went cold.
I had never given it to him.
Never.
Mark opened the door and held it for Vanessa.
She stepped inside with the lamp as if she belonged there.
That was the moment I stopped feeling merely angry.
I felt invaded.
I had found that house myself.
Signed for it myself.
Stood alone in the empty kitchen after closing and eaten a sandwich over the sink because I didn’t own a chair yet.
And now my former husband was strolling through it as though he held the deed.
Another clip loaded.
Vanessa stood on my porch and said,
“Once the sectional is in, I want to measure the windows for drapes.”
Rachel looked at me.
“Call him.”
My thumb hovered over Mark’s name.
For 27 years, this had been my habit.
Mark did something unreasonable.
I called him.
He explained.
And somehow, by the end of the conversation, I would be doubting my own reaction.
Mark wasn’t a screamer.
He was much harder to fight than that.
