The word seemed to frustrate her more than any denial could have.
She wanted a fight.
I had no fight left.
“Leave,” I said again.
She leaned closer, voice low. “You’re going to regret this.”
“I already regret everything.”
“No,” she whispered. “Not everything.”
Then she smiled.
It was small.
Cruel.
Almost pleased.
“There are things Hannah doesn’t know.”
My spine stiffened.
“What things?”
Vanessa slipped her sunglasses back on.
“You should check your email.”
Then she turned and walked away.
I watched her drive off, tires hissing against the pavement.
For several seconds, I stood frozen in the doorway.
Then I ran to my laptop.
My email inbox was full of junk, work messages, automated bills.
Nothing from Vanessa.
I refreshed.
Once.
Twice.
On the third time, a new message appeared.
No subject.
From Vanessa.
My pulse hammered as I opened it.
There was no text.
Only an attachment.
A video file.
My cursor hovered over it.
Some animal part of me already knew not to click.
But I did.
The video opened in a hotel room.
Dim lighting.
A bed.
Vanessa’s laugh behind the camera.
And me.
Drunk.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, shirt half unbuttoned, speaking into the lens.
At first, I couldn’t make out my words.
Then the audio sharpened.
“I’m telling you,” video-me slurred, smiling stupidly, “once the baby’s older, I’ll make it happen.”
Vanessa’s voice from behind the camera: “Make what happen?”
“I’ll leave.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah.”
“For me?”
“For you.”
I watched myself laugh.
Then Vanessa asked, “And Hannah?”
Video-me shrugged.
“She’ll be fine. She’s stronger than she looks.”
“And the baby?”
My stomach clenched.
In the video, I rubbed my face and said, “I don’t know. Babies don’t remember anything anyway.”
I slammed the laptop shut.
The room went silent.
My breathing came in ragged bursts.
Babies don’t remember anything anyway.
I had no memory of saying it.
But there I was.
Saying it.
Maybe drunk.
Maybe trying to impress Vanessa.
