I push my chair in and kiss my mom and Jen goodbye before scurrying out of the room. As I’m walking away, I pick up on Jen saying something about “that guy from college” before hearing Mom go off like a rocket.

I close the front door, thinking to myself that next week’s dinner will certainly be eventful. I walk half a block when I finally feel ready to do what I have been thinking about doing for the past six months. My hand is clammy as I dig through my bag, searching for my phone and feeling an anxious pang when eventually I find it.

I’m going to do this. I’m not going to back out. I pull the phone out of my bag and find Beefcake’s number in the contacts section. I close my eyes and refuse to think about the myriad of possibilities that can follow as I push down on the call button.

Hang up! Hang up! Hang up! He’s probably over you. You took too long. Hang up! Hang up! Hang up!

“Hello?”

Hearing a woman’s voice, I nearly drop the phone onto the concrete. I look at the screen to make sure I dialed the right number and see that I called Ryan’s home phone and not his cell. My first question is, why does he even have a home phone? My second question is, why did he feel the need to program it into my contacts along with his cell number? And my third—much more pressing—question is, why is a woman answering?

“Hi,” I say, pushing the phone back to my ear and trying not to sound horrified. “I’m sorry, is Ryan there?”

“He’s out right now, can I take a message?” The voice is clearer this time and it must be her. Madison. He’s back with her. Maybe he never ended things. Not even when he came to Rome.

“I...” I have no idea what to say. I can’t let him know it’s me. “I was just calling to see if he’d like to hear more about America’s leading credit union.”

The call almost immediately goes dead and I click the screen off, frozen in place.

Disappointment wells in my throat as I slip the phone into my peacoat pocket. I guess six months was too long to wait. Ryan and I are truly over. No more grand gestures, no happy epilogue with us on our wedding day. The truth sinks in and slithers through my body, slippery and cold and stinging everywhere it touches.

It’s a long and bitter walk back to the train. I try to tell myself that it’s better that I found out this way before I sent the journal. That with the truth comes freedom. Ryan has moved on and it’s time I did, too.