Taking the chicken would be psycho, right? Who removes a defrosted chicken from the fridge when she moves out?

But it’s organic. It cost six bucks a pound.

These are my crazy thoughts as I spot Daniela’s new iPhone resting on the countertop. She must have forgotten it again, which happens a lot. In her defense, Vermont’s cell service is so spotty that smartphones aren’t as useful as they are elsewhere in the world.

I pick up the phone and unlock it—the phone knows my thumbprint, so that I can choose tunes when we’re in the car together. For the first time in our eleven-month relationship, I open up the messaging app. I’m not a snoop. I’m a trusting person. But now that my trust has been eviscerated, I’m curious how long her affair has been going on.

Sure enough—right under a thread of messages with me is a thread with “Trax,” as Daniela’s ex called herself. (I know way too much about this woman, which meant it was always going to end this way.)

I read the last few texts, and I’m already nauseated.

Trax: Tomorrow can’t come soon enough, honey love. I’m so hot for you. Gonna make you scream again.

Ugh! I scroll up hastily to verify that the texts have been going on for weeks. But I scroll one time too many, because I find a picture of Daniela naked on our bed. Her legs are spread, fingertips lightly touching her—

I make a noise of dismay.

“Time to go,” Alec says softly from where he stands leaning against the doorframe. He doesn’t say so, but I can tell he’s keeping watch. He’s trying to protect me from another brutal confrontation.

And that’s a good impulse. I’m done here. Truly done. I click the phone off, so the screen goes dark. But that’s not satisfying enough. So I open the dishwasher, which Daniela forgot to run. I toss the phone into the top rack, slam it shut, and push the ON button.

“Okay,” I say, as the sound of water swishing around inside the machine begins. “I’m ready.”

Alec is frozen in the doorway, staring at me. Slowly, the corners of his mouth quirk upward. Then a full smile blooms. “You are a badass, May Shipley. I’m a little in awe of you.”

* * *

I don’t feel like a badass, though, as we roll toward my family’s farm in Tuxbury. I only feel like a failure.

“Everything okay over there?”

“Yes. Sorry.” I’m a terrible conversationalist. “Just trying to rearrange my brain. My family is not going to be graceful about this.”

“What? Sure they will be. They’ll be happy to see you.” Alec’s tone is soothing—the way you’d speak to a crazy person.

“Maybe. But I have quite the rep now as the family fuck-up. When I turn up tonight with your truck full of my stuff, and move back into my old room…” I groan, just picturing their faces. “There will be a lot of handwringing and watching me for signs of stress. I’m my family’s only hot mess.”