Again, I’ve imagined a million possible sarcastic replies in my head. Something like, “Since you already paid for a room at the Peninsula…” But I’m too tired for sarcasm, and I want to end this farce, so I go with the simple truth: “I know about you and Summer.”

John’s neck snaps toward me so fast I’m afraid it might break. Our eyes meet, and a wide range of emotions appear on his face: shock, fear, embarrassment… But to my utter dismay, his features settle on relief.

“Shit,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “That’s not how we wanted you to find out.”

Such a simple response, yet it tells me all I need to know. Taking his answer as the hypothesis for my failed-relationship theorem, I can only come to three logical conclusions:

a) John wanted me to find out. (His visibly relieved expression being incontrovertible proof.)

b) He’s chosen her. They’re a “we” now, apparently. He won’t even try to beg me for forgiveness. (Not that I would ever forgive him.) But a bit of groveling would’ve at least given me the satisfaction of showing him all my contempt. Also, it would’ve helped me believe I haven’t thrown away the last ten years of my life on a complete douchebag. And this brings me to realization number three:

c) The asshole didn’t even say he’s sorry!

In fact, Johnathan is more curious than contrite when he asks, “How did you…?”

No point in keeping the suspense alive. “The Find Friends app. Neither of you removed me from your followers.”

He makes a “so-dumb” grimace and seems at a loss for what to say next, so I take over. “I’ve packed all your stuff. I want you out of the house by tonight.”

Still wordless, he stares back and forth between me and the suitcases. Then he acknowledges my request with a single nod.

And just like that, a ten-year relationship is over.

It all feels so anti-climactic.

John silently loads the bags in his car. When he comes back inside, though, he seems to want to talk.

“Listen, Lana—”

“Don’t,” I interrupt him. Nothing he could say now would make me feel better. No excuses, justifications, not even a simple apology, would change things. Fighting to keep my tone even, I add, “I’ll need your keys back before you go.”

Johnathan’s eyes widen at the hardness in my voice. Looking chastened, he nods and unhooks his keys from the chain to drop them on the small cabinet in the hall. We stare at each other for a long, silent moment until I break.

“Please go,” I whisper.

He nods again and, without another word, he leaves.