Jennifer must not have been too worried about him having access to her house since she never changed the code on her door lock. If she’d wanted Blake out of her life, which she apparently hadn’t, that would have been the easiest way. That, and not responding to his messages. But she was also a person who used the same code on her alarm as on her phone. Was she just careless?

The two of them talked via text. A lot. They shared every detail of their lives. What they ate, what they saw, what they read. I felt sorry for archaeologists from the future who would have to wade through billions upon billions of abbreviated messages and photos of people’s tacos. I knew I’d contributed more than my fair share to the avalanche of data with my photos of Henry and Amanda, my pronouncements about beer and music. Were we all just yelling into a void? Was anybody really listening?

Once I’d scrolled back farther, I found an exchange from a month earlier in which Jennifer appeared to be listening very carefully.

Jennifer: Look, I just want you to be honest with me about what’s happening.

Blake: I’m trying to. It’s complicated.

Jennifer: It doesn’t have to be.

Blake: I wish that were so.

I lifted my hand to my forehead. I resisted the urge to bang my head against the top of the desk.

“Blake, you are a most magnificent idiot,” I said to no one.

I went back a few more weeks and saw a very different exchange:

Jennifer: I don’t ever want you to call me again.

Blake: I won’t. Don’t worry about that.

Jennifer: I won’t be your backup plan.

The more I read, the more I felt like a person could get whiplash following their relationship. The rest of the messages between the loving couple were more of the same. Highs and lows. Mundane talk and intense professions of love punctuated by the occasional several-week break in which things were completely cool. Only to resume again when one of them reached out to the other, arranging a meeting at Jennifer’s place.

I found it difficult to comprehend how Blake could almost blow the relationship with the person who was supposed to be most important to him.

And then I heard Blake’s voice in my head, cutting through everything like a buzz saw: Who are you to judge someone else for keeping secrets from the person closest to them?

Involuntarily my eyes trailed across the room to the bookshelf against the far wall. It was crammed with novels, textbooks left over from college, some professional journals relevant to both of our careers. But on top sat a framed photograph of Amanda and her sister, Mallory. The two of them were teenagers, hugging each other close. A photo taken six months before Mallory was killed by a drunk driver.