When did she get this phone?

I set the mug down, quickly open the contacts app only to find the one contact saved under the name Unknown Caller. I tap on the text app and start reading through the recent messages. But the ones from yesterday afternoon immediately catch my attention.

The Unknown Caller says Everything is ready for our session tomorrow. I got our usual room with a view of the river.

And the response from my wife—this phone was, How sweet. I'm looking forward to it.

I scroll down to see when these messages started being sent.

Roughly, two weeks ago, it seems.

The lump in my throat continues to grow as I keep reading. The texts from this phone say things like: told him I'd be late today, we'll have to make it a quick one this time, but I'll make it up to you later. Promise.

There are texts from the Unknown Caller at two in the morning that say: I'm parked around the corner. Others say I can't wait till Monday, is there anything you could pick up at the store? The lines can be very, very long on the weekends.

"This isn't happening," I mutter, slowly pushing my hair back.

This can't be real—Angela would never do...

The room or my head is spinning; this doesn't make sense. A stabbing pain shoots through my scalp, causing me to loosen the grip on my hair.

I scroll back to the last message: Call me when you get this.

And without a second thought, I hit the call button and bring the phone up to my ear with my ice-cold hand. It rings a couple times before a man answers.

"And how is the lovely Miss Summers tonight?" he asks in a happy tone.

Fuck.

"Miss Summers?"

Why is he calling Angela by her maiden name?

"Can you hear me?"

The line goes dead, and the phone almost slips out of my hand.

This can't be happening.

I take a few deep breaths, slap myself in the face a couple times, trying to pull it together.

He didn't say, Angela—Summers a common last name. This is just some kind of misunderstanding—but her picture is on the phone. Angela wouldn't...I just need to talk to her. We just need to talk.

I stare at the floor like I'm in a trance, trying to process what to do. Then it occurs to me, I should check our online banking from two weeks back—when the texting first started.

Googling the price of this phone will give me something to compare the purchases on our account to. All I have to do is see if any charges come close to the cost of the phone. If I don't find anything, then this might not even belong to her.

I head up to the loft, log into our account and begin my search. But it doesn't take long to find that not a single purchase comes close to the price of the phone. As I rub my forehead, the words from that text ring in my ears:

Everything is ready for our session tomorrow. I got our usual room with a view of the river.

Could he be talking about a hotel room?

I bring up Google Maps and search hotels in the city, and can't help chuckling when I see how many of them have views of the river.

Only about twenty or so, no big deal.

A deep sigh escapes my mouth as I contemplate what to do next. I glance at the clock in the corner and see that it's nearly three-thirty in the morning or "de la madrugada," as my grandfather used to say.

That's okay. I wasn't planning on sleeping anyway. Guess I should probably email work to let them know that I'm extending my leave. But I'll do that in the morning to make people think I actually sleep. I don't know why, but I thought Angela would be back home by now.

A man can dream.

But, there's no time like the present, so I might as well get as much work done tonight as possible; that way I won't fall too far behind. At least that'll take my mind off that fucking phone.

I head downstairs and chug my cold coffee before returning to the loft. The moment the music from my headphones starts filling my ears, I get lost in typing black letters on a white screen.

***

Daybreak arrives without the sun as menacing dark clouds cloak the sky. The buildings are wearing last night's snow on their roofs and balconies. But I'm relieved to see that the blood on the street has been buried under a blanket of snow. And in the distance, I can make out patches of ice floating in the grey waters of the river.

I should probably give my sister a call and email my boss.

Before hitting the call icon under Verónica's name, I inhale and try to compose myself. I press call and bring the phone up to my ear.

"Hola, little brother!" Verónica says, "How are you this morning?"

"Morning, Sis—I'm good. ¿Cómo estás?"

"Nothing to complain about."

Yet.

"Glad to hear that," I reply, feeling a pit forming in my stomach.

"I was up at the house last weekend, helping Mami and Papi get things ready—I figured it was good to not leave things for the last minute—Mamá already has your room ready for you and Angela. We're so excited to finally meet her in person."

I try to swallow, but there's a lump in my throat. "She's excited to meet you guys too—going to Colombia is all she's been talking about—"

"Can I say hi to her?" Verónica interrupts.

Fuck.

"Cariño?" I pretend to call. "Cariño? Looks like she already went to the gym."

"Oh, okay. Well, tell her I said hi when she gets back."

I nod. "Will do."

"So what day are you guys coming in? Felipe asked me that yesterday, but I said him you hadn't told me—"

"Vera," I cut in.

"Si?"

I rub the back of my neck and sigh. "We won't be able to make it to the reunion."

"Cómo? No puedo creer—I can't believe—"

"Before you get mad," I interrupt. "We're still coming. I just need to be somewhere that week for—"

"Work," she finishes the sentence with more than a hint of disdain in her voice.

"Look, it's not what you think—I didn't choose when this was going to happen; it just did."

Verónica sighs. "Siempre tienes la misma excusa. Or what's that phrase in English, 'Same shit different day?' I think that applies to you little brother."

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, but my hands are tied here."

"So you say," she quips. "Show up when you're ready. But I'm not telling Mami and Papi this time—you should give them a call when you're not too busy to remember you still have parents."

"Vera—"

"I think we should end this conversation before I say something I'll regret later."

"I'm really sorry. I just—"

"Adiós."

The line goes dead.

I exhale. "Love you too, Sis."

My career doesn't have a pause button. I don't know why that's so hard to understand. I'm just trying to get established—that doesn't mean I don't care about them.

I shake my head and rub my eyes.

Time for more coffee.

After putting a pod into the Keurig, I head to the bedroom room and throw on a pair of workout shorts. As soon as I walk back into the living room, I hear the mug filling up as that awesome roasted smell fills the air.

While the coffee's cooling on the counter, I start my warm-up stretches. When I'm done, I down my bitter drink, head to the spare bedroom and start hitting the rowing machine.

A warm breeze is blowing out on the lake as the oars rhythmically splash in the water, leaving ripples on the surface. The chirping of birds echoes through the crisp morning air, and golden light is about to spill over the trees near the shore.

Then my eyes open, and I'm back in my empty apartment. My lungs are still burning as I wipe the sweat off my brow. I twist my neck, causing it to crack before standing up and walking back to the living room to cool down.

After cooling down, I jump in the shower to wash off my work out, this morning and last night. But as I reach for the towel, a thought starts burning in my brain.

Each of the texts sent from that phone has a date and time. If I check our online banking again, I might be able to figure out where Angela's been.

My hair's barely dry when I exit the bathroom with the towel wrapped around my waist. I head up to the loft, sit down in front of both monitors and sign in to our banking.

But I don't even get a chance to scroll through the transactions. At the very top of the list, there's a Starbucks purchase from twenty minutes ago.

I wonder how many hotels have a view of the river and are also close to a Starbucks.