I was with his mother, picking out wedding bands, when I saw Aris with another woman. We were at Cartier. Through the reinforced glass, I watched him emerge from a high-end bistro across the promenade. He held the woman's coat for her; she smiled and nodded. As they reached the main doors, he jogged a step ahead to push the heavy glass door open for her. There was no physical contact. No lingering looks. It was all perfectly polite, standard social etiquette. But a bride-to-be has a particularly sharp sense of danger. I knew, instantly, who she was. Beside me, Aris’s mother, Mrs. Thorne, stiffened. She’d seen my focus shift. She didn't offer a single word of explanation for her son. Instead, after a long silence, she reached into her purse and pulled out a heavy, vintage gold locket. “Maya,” she said, pressing it into my palm. “Let’s add this to your set. A little something extra.” 1 I looked down. The locket was heavy, easily three ounces of antique gold, intricately carved with filigree. It was a serious, substantial piece. Mrs. Thorne closed her hand over mine, clasping the locket tightly. “Maya, dear. I am so fond of you. I just want you and Aris to be happy.” Mrs. Thorne is a classic academic’s wife—a Vassar woman, elegant, impeccably dressed, and always composed. But now, her voice was strained. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine, darting instead to the window where Aris had been. A cold, sad feeling settled in my stomach. Was this a bribe? Was she giving me this heavy, beautiful thing to lock me down? The sales associate, oblivious to the undercurrent, beamed. “A locket is such a beautiful choice. To lock in the love, the fortune.” She smiled at Mrs. Thorne. “You have wonderful taste, and you are so generous to your new daughter.” “And it’s your lucky day,” the associate continued. “We have a trunk show event…” I tuned her out. My mind was replaying the scene. We were at the Prudential Center. The restaurant was right across from the jeweler. Aris couldn’t have missed us. He chose not to see us. His attention had been entirely on the woman, Eva. They walked past, laughing, like any other couple, and disappeared into the crowd. They looked perfect together—if only he weren't my fiancé. By the time I tuned back in, Mrs. Thorne was handing over her credit card. She had the sales associate box the locket separately and pushed it across the glass counter toward me. “Maya,” she said, her voice quiet. “Will you accept this? From me?” I didn't know how to react. It was a classic, unspoken, high-society contract. Take the gift, and agree to forget what you just saw. I didn’t want to accept it, but I wouldn't embarrass her in public. I nodded, my voice tight. “Thank you, Mrs. Thorne. It’s beautiful.” 2 Aris got home at 11 PM. I was in the study, organizing my camera equipment. He rushed in, dropped his briefcase, and wrapped me in a hug from behind. “Sorry, Maya. The tenure committee dinner ran forever. They insisted on drinks after.” I leaned back into his chest, but I frowned. Aris always had a specific, intoxicating scent—like old books and clean rain after a storm. It was the reason I loved hugging him. My friends called me a lunatic, said the "professor scent" was just my own pheromonal delusion. But tonight, it was gone. “Where did you eat?” I asked, stepping away. His body went rigid. Oh, that’s right. I never ask about his work. I’m a photographer; I don't care about academic politics. That disinterest had always been the perfect cover for him. He never expected me to follow up. “Uh, the faculty club. Downtown. It was fine. We’ll go sometime.” He quickly changed the subject. “Did you and Mom find the bands?” He was supposed to come with me. But he’d claimed this "tenure dinner" was mandatory. I nodded. “We went to the Cartier at the Pru. We found them.” I emphasized the name of the mall. The same one he’d been at. A flicker of panic crossed his face. He picked up one of the boxes, fumbling with the ribbon. “Great. They look… great. The color is perfect for you.” I tilted my head. “Gold comes in different colors now, Professor?” He blinked, then forced a laugh, rubbing his temples. “God, I’m tired. I’m talking nonsense.” He put the box down and gave me a light, dry kiss on the forehead. “I’m going to shower. Don’t wait up.” He walked into the bathroom without looking me in the eye. 3 The water started running. I looked at the entryway table. His briefcase, his keys. I looked at the kitchen counter. I looked at the coffee table. No phone. There was only one other place it could be. I looked at the bathroom door. He took his phone into the shower. Aris, who treats his electronics like Fabergé eggs, had just taken his phone into a steam-filled room. I felt a sudden, bitter laugh rise in my throat. This was pathetic. I went back to the bedroom. I was scrolling through Instagram, waiting for sleep, when a post made me stop. It was from a postdoc in Aris’s lab, a guy named Chen I’d met a few times. He’d been at the "tenure dinner." It was a group photo of seven people, captioned: [So honored to be at this symposium with such brilliant minds!] My finger slowly scrolled down. In the comments, Chen had added: [And great to finally meet the legendary Dr. Eva Cole! Congrats on the new post!] My heart stopped. I zoomed in on the photo. Aris was in the center. To his left was Eva. The woman from the restaurant. She had short, ash-brown hair and a brilliant smile. Her hand was resting, casually and confidently, on Aris’s shoulder. I looked at the "likes" on the post. Aris’s name was at the top. I pressed the heart icon, my thumbprint landing right next to his. I turned off the phone and lay in the dark. Eva Cole. I knew that name. 4 I first saw her name last year, on Aris’s birthday. I was using his phone to take a picture of him with his cake when a notification popped up. Eva Cole: [Happy birthday. Sorry to bother you.] We’d only been together a couple of months. I was in that giddy, teasing phase. “Eva Cole,” I’d said, “sounds beautiful. She remembers your birthday, but she’s so formal. Is she an ex-girlfriend?” I was joking. But Aris didn't laugh. He was silent for a long moment. “Yes,” he said. My smile vanished. I didn’t want to be that girlfriend, the jealous, insecure one. But I couldn't stop the tears from welling up. He’d been horrified. He’d unlocked his phone, handed it to me, and told me everything, right there in the private dining room. They were college sweethearts at Harvard. They’d dated through their PhDs. But after graduation, she’d taken a post in California. The long-distance hadn’t worked. She needed more emotional validation than he could give over the phone, and she’d ended it. He said he’d been heartbroken, but he got over it when he heard she was dating someone new. I scrolled through their messages. The last one was from two years prior. Just as he said. A clean break. “If it’s over, why is she still in your contacts?” I’d asked. He’d given me a very Aris-like answer. “Every experience, even a failed relationship, is just data that shapes who we are. Without that data, I wouldn't be the man you fell in love with.” He saw my tear-streaked face and softened. “If you want, I’ll delete her right now. You’re the only person I care about.” He was always so rational, so academic, that it made my emotional reactions feel stupid. So I’d backed down. I told him not to delete her. I was afraid of making her a martyr. After all, you can’t compete with a ghost. …Lying in bed now, I laughed at my own naiveté. Maybe the moment I’d failed to say "Yes, delete her," our ending was already written.
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