It had worked. The code had worked. 72619.
July 26, 2019.
Our wedding day.
“I’m going to text Shannon and make sure she sends me pictures,” Daniel says now, turning toward the dresser and opening his underwear drawer. He steps into his boxers, a pair of red and green flannel ones I bought him for Christmas, and laughs. “I want photo evidence of you straddling those bartenders on Bourbon Street, you know the ones with the little test-tube shots—”
“No,” I say, probably too fast. I turn toward him, watch as his eyes narrow a fraction, then scramble to come up with an excuse believable enough to convince him not to text Shannon, or Melissa, or anyone for that matter, because none of them are going on my bachelorette party. I’m not even going on my bachelorette party. Because it doesn’t exist.
“Please don’t,” I say, lowering my eyes. “I mean, it’s my bachelorette party, Daniel. I don’t want to be self-conscious the entire time, worried about making a fool out of myself and having it wind up on your phone.”
“Oh, come on now,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “Since when are you insecure about having a few too many drinks?”
“We’re not supposed to be communicating!” I say, trying to make it playful. “It’s just one weekend. Besides, I doubt they’ll even respond. I’ve already been read the rules—no calls, no texts. We’re being cut off. Girls’ weekend.”
“Fine,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “What happens in New Orleans stays in New Orleans.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll be home Sunday, then?”
I nod, the prospect of four full, uninterrupted days enough to make me melt into the carpet. It’s a relief, really. Getting away. Getting to stop the pretending, the constant acting that’s required of me every time I step foot in my own home. And hopefully, after this trip, I won’t need to act anymore. I won’t need to pretend. I won’t need to sleep with my body pressed against his, concealing the cringe that shudders down my back every time his lips graze against my neck. After this trip, I will have the evidence I need to go to the police, finally. To make them believe me, finally.
But that doesn’t make what I’m about to do any easier.
“I’ll miss you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. I’ve been distant since the night of the alarm and he knows it. He can sense it, sense me pulling away. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and force myself to stand, to walk over toward him and take a seat by his side.
“I’ll miss you, too,” I say, holding my breath as he pulls me in for a kiss. He holds my head in his hands, cradling my skull in that familiar way. “But hey, I have to go.”
I pull back, standing up and walking to my suitcase, closing the flap and zipping it shut.
“I have a few appointments this morning, then I’m leaving straight from the office. Melissa and I are riding together, and we’ll pick up Shannon on the way.”
“Have fun.” He smiles. For a brief second, watching him sit on the edge of the bed by himself, his fingers laced together as his palms rest heavy in his lap, I sense a sadness that I’ve never seen in him before. The kind of desperate longing that I had once recognized in myself, before Daniel, when I felt the loneliest in the company of others. Just weeks ago, I would have felt guilty, that familiar pang in the chest when you lie to someone you love. I am sneaking around behind his back, digging into his past the way I have always chastised others for doing to me. But this is different, I know. This is serious. Because Daniel isn’t me—I know he’s not me. But I’m becoming increasingly certain that he may be just like my father.
I arrive at my office thirty minutes before my first appointment, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. I walk quickly past Melissa’s desk, waving at her as she takes a sip of her latte, trying to avoid lengthy conversation about my upcoming trip. I told her it was for wedding planning, but beyond that very vague description, I’m lacking any legitimate details. My primary concern had been providing a believable alibi to Daniel, and so far, I think I’ve done pretty well.
“Doctor Davis,” she says, placing her cup on the desk. I’m halfway through my office door before turning toward the sound of her voice. “Sorry, but you have a visitor. I told him you have an appointment, but … he’s been waiting.”
I turn toward my waiting room, glancing at the cluster of couches in the corner that I had completely ignored on my way in, and there, sitting on the far edge of one of them, is Detective Thomas. He’s holding a magazine open in his lap and smiles in my direction before flipping it closed and tossing it back on the coffee table.