The Call He Never Answered

For three out of the five years we were together, Simon kept my contact on Do Not Disturb. His excuse was always delivered with a tired, reasonable smile: "You send too many little updates, Avery. The constant buzzing makes it impossible to focus on work." So I learned to swallow my days. I learned to edit myself down to the essentials, tucking every stray thought, every small hurt, and every funny observation away into a locked Notes app on my phone. Until this afternoon, when Simon noticed the smart home speaker sitting dormant on the living room credenza and asked me to reconnect it to the app. The second the sync completed, the robotic female voice cut through the quiet room, reading out the archived log from last Friday. "Alert received. Hannah dropped a pin at a new location and requested an audio call." "Alert received. Reminder set for Hannah's incoming message: 'Pick up dry cleaning.'" Her notifications were configured for Emergency Override. Even if the speaker was blasting music, her voice, her needs, her demands would cut straight through the melody. Last Friday. The exact day I was rear-ended on the interstate during rush hour. My car had crumpled into the median barrier. The air smelled of burnt rubber and powder from the deployed airbag, and my hands shook so violently I could barely hold the screen. I called Simon six times. I texted him my live location. I begged him to pick up. Nothing. Just the hollow silence of a muted line. Now, Simon glanced up from his laptop, catching my deadened, motionless stare. His tone was dismissive, entirely casual. "She’s only nineteen," he said, turning back to his screen. "Living on her own in the city for the first time. I worry about her. If something happens, I need to know immediately." It wasn't that he lacked the capacity to worry. He just had a hierarchy of who deserved his vigilance. And I wasn't at the top. I looked at him, and whatever fragile, desperate ache had been lingering in my chest simply dissolved. Evaporated into thin air. … "It's fine," I murmured quietly. "I won't bother you with messages anymore." Simon’s thumb paused on his screen. He looked up, his lips curving into an approving, relieved smile. "That's my girl. Be the mature one." He reached out and patted the top of my head. His palm was warm, dry, and infuriatingly condescending. "You know how you get. You'd break one simple thought into ten different texts. It was just a little overwhelming." He said it lightly, as if he were critiquing a minor habit rather than erasing my presence from his day. His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He glanced at the preview, stood up immediately, and headed toward his home office. "Hannah's calling. Let me take this real quick." The door clicked shut behind him. I remained on the sofa, staring at his tablet left unlocked on the table. The screen glowed softly against the afternoon dimness. I reached out, intending to tap the lock button for him, but my eyes caught the open DoorDash history. Dozens of artisan coffee and beverage orders. Iced shaken espressos, cold brews with sweet cream, caramel macchiatos. Every single delivery addressed to Hannah’s high-rise. In the special instructions, one line was copied over and over: "Oat milk, light ice, two pumps vanilla, extra caramel drizzle. I know it's her favorite." My fingers froze hovering above the glass. Two winters ago, during a brutal cold snap, I had mentioned offhandedly how much I craved a hot vanilla chai latte from the local café. The next day, it appeared on my desk. For an entire month, he ordered it every single morning. The delivery note had read: "Steamed extra hot, whole milk, double cinnamon. She has a sensitive stomach, nothing iced." For thirty days, I drank that sweet warmth, convinced I was cherished. Then came our first major fight, a temporary breakup, and an eventual reconciliation. After we got back together, he never ordered it again. When I asked once, he shrugged and said work was too hectic, that he simply forgot. He hadn't forgotten how to be attentive. He had just redirected that attentiveness to someone else. I shut the tablet's magnetic cover and laid it flat. The office door opened, and Simon stepped out to retrieve the device. Seeing me sitting there, his gaze flicked to the closed case, then back to my face. "I just order her a morning latte now and then while she's studying for exams," he said offhandedly. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. A second later, a notification chimed on my phone: a Venmo transfer. "You spent a lot out-of-pocket on the collision deductible last week. Take this." I opened the notification. Fifty dollars. The wall of specialty espresso runs on his receipt history cost three times that amount. "Thanks," I said evenly. He gave me an absent nod and retreated into his office, closing the door again. I stood up and walked toward the entryway, suffocating beneath the four walls of the apartment. I needed air. The moment my fingers touched the handle of the digital smart lock on our front door, a mechanical chime sounded. "Fingerprint not recognized. User profile deleted." I paused, hand suspended in midair. Simon leaned his head out of the office doorway. "Oh, Hannah came by a few days ago to feed the cat while we were out. She was trying to add her thumbprint and accidentally hit the factory reset. Just reprogram your right thumb." I looked down at the tiny backlit screen on the deadbolt. Three years ago, when he installed this lock, he had guided my hands, pressing each of my fingers to the scanner, grinning against my ear. "Your print is the master key to this place, Avery. Highest priority." Back then, cardboard boxes were still piled high in the hallway. He had taken my hands, pressing my thumbs, my index fingers, one by one. "Now this door will always know when you've come home." I pressed my right thumb against the sensor. A red light flashed. The synthesized voice chirped: "User storage full. Profile owner: Hannah." Ten registered slots. All ten assigned to Hannah. A heavy silence settled over the foyer. Simon’s expression tightened briefly with embarrassment, but he quickly smoothed it into a weary sigh. "She was just messing around, scanning all ten of her fingers like an idiot kid. Don’t read into it." I didn't answer. Following the prompt, I selected an override option and registered my single right thumb. The front door clicked shut behind me, but through the gap, I could still hear Simon’s muffled, gentle cadence floating from the apartment. "Hannah? Hey, what's wrong? Don't cry..." "I know. I know it's hard on you." I pulled my phone from my pocket and unlocked the Notes app. I had used this folder for three years. It was an archive of things I had never sent. The most recent entry was from last Friday: "Rear-ended on the expressway. Airbag went off. Hands shaking so hard I dropped my keys. He didn't answer." Scrolling up, there were hundreds of dates. Lines upon lines of words I had swallowed down to keep the peace. At the very bottom of the document, I typed: "Moving out. Lease termination." Then I opened the building's tenant portal, navigated to our shared lease, and submitted the notice to vacate my portion of the agreement at the end of the month. The screen dimmed. Standing in the fluorescent-lit corridor, I heard another quiet chuckle from behind the apartment door. "All right, kiddo. I'll take you to that steakhouse next time." The timer on the hallway motion lights clicked off, plunging the landing into shadows. I didn't move. I just stood there in the dark. The next morning, Simon uncharacteristically returned with breakfast. A brown paper bag from my favorite French bakery down the street, still radiating heat. Freshly baked cinnamon brioche, flaky croissants, and hot drip coffee. "Don't hold yesterday against me," he said softly, setting the bag on the counter. "I took personal time off work today. We're going to get your bridal heels custom-fitted." I took a bite of a warm brioche. The butter and cinnamon warmed my tongue, rich and soft. His eyes were soft, his tone brimming with an earnest affection that felt disorienting. For a fleeting second, the old, familiar weakness tugged at me: "Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I'm just too sensitive." His sedan was idling down at the curb. I walked over to the passenger side and pulled the door open. The seat was pushed unnervingly far forward. When I tried to slide in, my knees jammed painfully against the dashboard, my shins wedged beneath the glove compartment. I reached down beside the cushion for the seat adjustment lever. A sharp tap on the glass stopped me. Simon was standing outside, peering through the window. "Don't move the seat," he said through the crack. "Hannah’s legs are shorter. She spent twenty minutes finding the exact angle where her feet could rest comfortably on the floorboard." My hand hovered over the lever. Simon opened the back door. "Besides, you're wearing that long linen skirt today. It'll wrinkle up front. It's roomier back here." I unclicked the seatbelt I hadn't even fully buckled, stepped out of the passenger side, and slid into the rear bench. I stared at the empty front seat ahead of me, saying nothing. At the bespoke bridal boutique downtown, the artisan brought out measuring calipers and soft tape. I had just slipped off my shoe when the glass entry door chimed. Hannah rushed inside, slightly out of breath, clutching an oversized designer tote. "Simon! I didn't make you wait, did I? Has Avery picked her style yet?" Simon shook his head with an indulgent grin, naturally motioning for the shoemaker to pull up another stool for her. As Hannah took a seat, pulling up the hem of her cropped pants, a patch of puffy red skin showed on her outer ankle. Simon’s brow instantly furrowed. He dropped to one knee on the hardwood floor to inspect it. "How did you roll it again? Didn't I explicitly tell you to stick to flats?" Last week, following the crash, my ankle had been swollen into an ugly plum-colored knot from slamming into the brake pedal. The discoloration had crept up the tendon toward my calf; every step in a shoe felt like walking on glass. Simon had glanced at it once, tossed a pack of generic pain relief gel onto the bed, and said, "Keep it elevated. It’s just a sprain, nothing serious." Then he had stepped onto the balcony to answer a call from Hannah. Now, Simon remained crouched by her feet, his thumb testing the edges of the swelling with exquisite care. Hannah let out a sharp hiss of breath. He withdrew his hand instantly. "Hurts?" "A little." Simon looked up at the craftsman. "We need an orthopedic modification for her pair. Reinforce the lateral collar so the ankle has structural support." Then he glanced back at me, as if remembering I was in the room. "Avery, try these floor samples first while he maps out Hannah’s measurements. Her foot needs a custom cast because of the injury." The craftsman was already wrapping the measuring tape around Hannah’s ankle, noting numbers in a leather ledger. "Okay," I said. When it came time to settle the deposit, Simon swiped his card at the counter. The terminal screen illuminated brightly: "VIP Client Recognized: Hannah Talbot." On the drive back, Simon took a hands-free call through the car speakers. "I opened the store account under your name," he told Hannah over the line. "The loyalty tiers and reward points will accrue to your profile. Next time you want shoes there, just give them your number." Even for the shoes intended for my wedding, the residual benefits were funneled to her. I stared at the back of his neck. My mind drifted back to our junior year of college. Simon had taken on food delivery shifts through a brutal winter, braving freezing rain on an old scooter for three straight months just to open a high-yield savings card for me. He had pressed that glossy card into my palms, his eyes feverishly bright and terrifyingly sincere: "This account has only your name on it, Avery. I want to build a safety net inside this card so you’ll never have to worry about the ground falling out from beneath you." That card was still tucked deep in my vanity drawer, untouched, the balance zeroed out long ago. And now, he finally had the means to provide someone with effortless comfort. The name on the card just wasn't mine. That evening, Simon cooked. He filled the dining table with an upscale dinner he knew I loved: red-wine braised short ribs over creamy parmesan polenta, pan-seared sea bass with brown butter, and blistered haricots verts. "I know I've been distracted lately," he murmured, plating a tender, fork-shredded short rib directly onto my plate. "Eat up. You've lost weight." I chewed quietly. The beef was rich and savory, braised to perfection. For a few minutes, the warm light in the kitchen created an illusion of domestic peace. Halfway through the meal, his phone vibrated against the wood. He checked the caller ID. "It's my mom. Let me step outside for a second." He walked onto the balcony, leaving the glass sliding door cracked an inch. His mother’s sharp voice carried through the evening breeze, crystalline and unsparing. "Simon, did the wire go through for Hannah’s summer study abroad program in Milan?" "That’s seventy thousand dollars. Make sure she’s set up properly so she doesn't run into trouble over there." Seventy thousand dollars. My fork stopped in midair. Two weeks ago, Simon sat across from me at this very table, claiming his startup’s venture funding had hit an unexpected snag, insisting we had to postpone the down payment on the house we’d spent eight months scouting. "Let's just renew the apartment lease for another year," he had pleaded, rubbing his temples, looking wretched with stress. "Just until the market stabilizes and I get my cash flow back." I had believed him without hesitation. I went into our real estate portal, deleted the saved listings from my favorites folder, and agreed to another twelve months of rent. Simon slid the balcony door open and returned to the table, his demeanor smooth, completely unbothered. He reached into his pocket and slid a velvet box across the runner. When it opened, a diamond pendant on a delicate platinum chain caught the warm chandelier light. "You were looking at this in the boutique window last month. Do you like it? I'm sorry for being so absent lately." I touched the pendant. Cool, perfectly polished, weightless. "It's beautiful," I said. He stood behind my chair and fastened the clasp, his fingers lingering momentarily against the nape of my neck. "We'll get better things down the line. I promise." I nodded, keeping my gaze lowered. When he headed into the master bath, the roar of the shower muffled the apartment. I stood up and walked into the office. He had left in a hurry; the top desk drawer remained unlocked, resting a fraction of an inch ajar. I pulled it open. Right on top lay the tuition receipt: "Overseas Certificate Program, Milan. Amount: $70,000. Remitter: Simon Talbot." Directly beneath it was the bank confirmation slip. The funds had been transferred from our joint house-fund account. The account where my paycheck had been automatically direct-deposited on the first of every month for three straight years. I had thought that money was resting quietly in an escrow holding, inching us toward a garden, a front porch, a home of our own. I pulled out my phone, snapped high-resolution photos of every document, carefully returned them to their exact positions, and slid the drawer shut. As the lock clicked, his tablet chimed on the desk. A message notification from Hannah flashed on the ambient display. "Simon! I finished the honeymoon itinerary. Stick to this route—it’s going to be iconic." I tapped the screen to open the PDF attachment. It was an obsessively detailed, minute-by-minute travel guide. Off-grid hiking, primitive coastal glamping, private eco-lodges with communal outdoor facilities. Every single stop was something I despised. I recalled our very first year together, when Simon spent a week mapping out our first road trip. He had researched scenic coastal routes, vetted hotels, and hand-lettered an itinerary on heavy stock paper, tucking it beneath my pillow. On the final page, he had sketched two stick figures sitting on a sand dune, labeled: "Avery & Simon’s Great Escape." The boy who drew that was dead. Simon emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. Catching sight of me standing by the desk, his expression stiffened. "Hannah travels constantly," he said smoothly, reaching over to flip the tablet face-down. "I just asked her to give us some inspiration to save us the headache of planning." "It's very thorough," I said. "Takes the guesswork out of it." He visibly relaxed and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I took out my phone and opened the county clerk’s portal. The screen still displayed my active confirmation: "Civil Marriage Appointment Confirmed: Next Wednesday, 10:00 AM." I tapped the red button. "Appointment Cancelled." At three in the morning, a blinding cramp seized my abdomen. I curled into a tight ball beneath the duvet, breaking into a cold sweat. I reached out toward Simon’s side of the bed. The sheets were stone cold. I dragged my phone off the nightstand with trembling fingers. A text had arrived two hours prior: "Hannah thinks someone was trying to pick her front door lock. Going over to secure the perimeter. Go back to sleep." The pain ripped through my stomach like broken glass. I crawled out of bed, bracing my weight against the corridor wall, dry-heaving violently into the toilet bowl until my ribs ached. I dialed 911. By the time the ambulance brought me into the emergency room, the attending physician ordered an immediate endoscopy, citing acute mucosal bleeding. "We need a partner or next of kin to sign off on the sedation consent," the triage nurse told me. I lay on the gurney beneath the fluorescent lights, trembling under a thin fleece blanket. I dialed Simon. It rang six times before clicking open. The background wasn't the hush of an apartment break-in. There was upbeat music, the clinking of glassware, and Hannah’s laughter ringing bright and clear. "Simon," I whispered. "Avery? Why are you up?" "You said someone broke into her place." "Oh, false alarm," he said easily. "Turned out to be the building super checking the water meters. But since I was already here, I’m helping her reorganize her storage unit. She can’t lift the bins alone." Over the line, Hannah called out, "Simon, should this frame go on the mantel or the bookshelf?" "Leave it there, I'll hang it in a sec," he shouted back. Then, into the receiver, his voice softened into mild irritation: "Is this urgent? If it can wait, I'm going to be tied up here for a couple more hours." Hannah’s giggle floated through the speaker again. "Look how cute this looks up here!" "Looks great," Simon murmured away from the mic. "It's fine," I whispered, staring up at the water-stained acoustic tiles of the hospital ceiling. "Take your time." I pressed the red circle to hang up. "Can your emergency contact make it?" the nurse asked, pen hovering. "No," I said, my voice steadying. "I'll authorize it myself." I scrawled my signature across the surgical consent form and pressed my thumb into the ink pad. The diagnosis was severe acute gastritis triggered by prolonged systemic stress. By dawn, the IV fluids had slowed to a steady drip. I sat on an aluminum waiting-room bench outside the outpatient pharmacy, a cotton ball taped to the crook of my bruised arm, my face washed-out and gray. The pneumatic ER doors slid open with a hiss. I looked up. Simon was walking through the threshold, his arm securely looped around Hannah’s waist. Her right foot was wrapped in an elastic bandage. She was limping dramatically, but she was smiling up at him. "Simon, you're making such a huge deal out of nothing!" "You fell off a kitchen stool, Hannah. That’s not nothing," Simon scolded, his voice thick with raw panic. "You have zero balance, and you insisted on climbing up there to reach a vase?" He kept his head low, one arm braced firmly against her ribs, the other clutching her intake paperwork, maneuvering her past the triage desk with frantic haste. He passed within two feet of my bench. He didn't notice me. A voice cut across the corridor from the dispensing window: "Avery Clark! Prescription pickup for Avery Clark!" Simon halted. He turned around, his eyes locking onto mine, and completely froze. His instinctive reaction wasn't to step toward me. It was to take half a step backward, subtly shielding Hannah behind his shoulder. "Avery? What are you doing here?" Before I could part my lips, he blurted out, "Hannah twisted her ankle pretty badly. Let me get her into an exam room first. Go home and wait for me, okay?" I watched the way his body angled—a defensive shield around her, casting me out into the cold. The final, stubborn ember of expectation inside me went dark. I said nothing. I reached down, pulled the medical tape and cotton ball from my inner elbow, pressed my thumb against the small pinprick of blood, and walked straight past them toward the exit. The morning air outside was crisp, biting into my coat. I pulled out my phone. One by one, I blocked Simon Talbot on everything. Phone, iMessage, WhatsApp, email. A yellow cab pulled up to the curb. I wrenched the door open and slid into the vinyl seat. "Where to?" the driver asked. "The airport," I said.