I try to find things to do. I rearrange my bookshelf. I rewash all the dishes in the cabinet, then go through my clothes and make piles for Goodwill. By the time I’ve moved from the closet to the dresser he’s responded: “Me and some of the other writers decided to stay in Chicago until Monday to see The Winter’s Tale at the Shakespeare Theater. It’s supposed to be a fabulous production. I thought maybe you could catch a train up here to meet us. If not I’ll come over the second I’m back. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

Right then, I know. All the unnecessary exposition, the time between emails. As if to confirm my suspicions Matías calls seven times that night. I don’t pick up his first call. He leaves two messages. The first is breezy; the second, panicked. “Is everything okay? Why aren’t you answering? I’m starting to worry.”

This is what fear of getting caught looks like. Fear of losing. I know. I’ve seen it before.

“Hopefully you’ll learn you can’t treat people with such disregard.” My mind summons the words from Anna’s email. “Even yourself.”

I think back to those terrible days in the desert after she found out. All along I knew what I was doing was wrong, that I was dangerously close to a precipice. But still, I need to fall in order to stop. Beyond the shock of getting caught was the realization that I had hurt someone, and badly. I’d lied for so long, and not just to Anna. But the idea of losing her because of something I’d done, a series of mistakes, the thought of being alone, was all too much to bear.

Matías has checked his email on my laptop, and I try logging into his account. I type “M” into the user-name field. His handle pops up, but the password isn’t saved. I make several incorrect guesses before closing the browser and forcefully shutting the screen.

On Monday morning, I answer a call from an unknown number. “What the hell is going on?” Matías asks frantically.

I hang up and he keeps calling back. He sends me a text message: I bought a cell phone, call me. Please. He calls eighteen times throughout the rest of the day. Each time I hit “ignore,” I feel momentary doubt—what if I’m wrong, and punishing him unnecessarily? I put my phone away, unable to watch as the calls accrue.

That evening I’m leaving my apartment and I run into him right outside. He’s walking fast, lighting a cigarette, eyes pregnant with fury. He stops when he sees me. “I was just on my way up to your place. Are you ignoring me?”

“Obviously. There’s nothing to say, Matías, I know you’re sleeping with Claire.”