237 Ks Zero Fs Chapter 01
I walked out the doors of the First Hill women’s health clinic and sent my husband, Conor, a text.
[It’s been taken care of. The baby’s gone.]
His reply appeared instantly on the screen. [K.]
I stared at that single letter and suddenly felt something close to amusement.
For years, whenever I sent him check-in messages before high-risk field surveys as a structural engineer, I got [K.] back. When I reminded him to call the police if he couldn’t reach me within twenty-four hours, I got [K.] back.
Three years ago, during the I-90 tunnel expansion through the Cascades, a mudslide hit. I was pinned under steel and concrete, completely cut off for seventy-two hours.
In the grip of absolute terror and searing pain, I sent Conor two hundred and thirty-seven messages begging for help.
He replied with two hundred and thirty-seven [K.]s.
That was when the truth finally punched through. The responses I’d been receiving all along were from an auto-reply he’d set up on his phone. Driving mode.
Conor didn’t read my messages.
Which meant he had no way of knowing I’d told him half a month ago about accepting an internal transfer to our London office. Or that I’d scheduled the appointment at the clinic yesterday. Today was just the final signature.
His energy, his attention—those had only ever belonged to the girl who filled his social feeds and Snapchat chat logs.
[1000 days! Huge thanks to this little demon for tormenting me nonstop.]
The post came with a screenshot of his Snapchat conversation with Hailey. Next to a dense wall of back-and-forth messages sat a streak flame icon with the number “1000” beside it.
I liked the post.
Then I commented: [Congrats on hitting the milestone. The man seriously deserves a medal.]
That day was the anniversary of my escape from the mudslide.
And it was the day I decided to leave Conor for good.
…
I made my way slowly back to our townhouse in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, walked into the master bedroom, and collapsed into bed.
The cramping in my lower abdomen didn’t ease until I woke up hours later.
Something still felt off. Too hollow. The emptiness sat in my uterus and seeped into this dark house, cold and damp with Seattle’s bone-chilling rain.
I reached for my phone on instinct, ready to ask Conor why he still wasn’t back from his architecture firm at three in the morning.
The facial recognition unlocked the screen. I stared at all those lifeless “K.”s filling the chat, and my brain finally snapped back online.
I laughed at myself. Almost three years, and I still hadn’t kicked that damn habit—expecting anything from him.
Click—
The keypad lock at the front entrance disengaged.
I walked out and nearly collided with Conor, who was shrugging off his The North Face shell jacket.
He hung the dripping coat on the rack. “Hailey said she was suddenly craving my mac and cheese in the middle of the night. I just drove over to her apartment to drop some off. Ran into this godawful rain on the way back.”
“You’re still up? Want some tea?”
“Yeah,” I said, flat.
He stepped into the bathroom and called through the door, “What did you go to the clinic for today?”
He pulled out the Dyson blow-dryer, plugged it in, and hit the switch.
“An abortion.” My voice disappeared completely under the roar of the machine.
He always did this. Never had the patience to let me finish a sentence.
My eyes flicked to the leather cord around Conor’s neck. A rough, braided strip of leather.
It poked out from his collar every time he wore a Brooks Brothers white button-down to meet a client.
He’d rather sweat through his blazer in an air-conditioned conference room than take it off.
It was just a cheap leather bracelet Hailey had picked up for him at Coachella last year, with a flimsy metal charm dangling from it.
“Conor, where’s your wedding ring?” I leaned against the doorframe.
He shut off the dryer and raked a hand through his damp blond hair. “Took it off.”
“I don’t like the way it binds my finger. Gets in the way when I’m drafting, too.”
“Then why do you still wear that piece-of-crap festival bracelet?” I knew exactly why. I wanted to hear him say it.
“That’s different,” he said. “It’s soft leather. A platinum band is hard and digs into the skin. You’re the only one who still happily wears one every day.”
I looked down at the ring on my finger.
Wedding ring?
My actual Tiffany diamond had been locked in a safe for ages.
The one I wore now was something I’d grabbed from the impulse-buy rack while standing in line at Target.
Ten dollars. Even the fake crystal sparkled cheap.
Conor hadn’t noticed.
Or rather, he hadn’t paid attention to me for so long he couldn’t even remember the last time we’d held hands.
“Alright, go get some sleep.”
He walked over, ruffled the top of my head like I was a Golden Retriever, and disappeared into the guest room at the end of the hall.
We hadn’t shared a bed since I got pregnant.
He said it was because he stayed up late working on drafts. The blue light and keyboard sounds would disturb my rest.
The truth was, Conor went to pick up Hailey from her bartending shift every single night. He’d buy her Chipotle at a food truck for a late-night snack and then drop her off at her apartment. He usually didn’t get home until two or three in the morning.
Even after they both went home, they stayed on chat.
One time I got up to use the bathroom at five in the morning and saw light bleeding from under the guest room door. The clatter of a mechanical keyboard drifted out, along with muffled, deliberately low laughter.
Before, I would have shoved that door open and demanded to know what the hell they had to talk about. Was there really that much to discuss in this world?
If there was, then why did Conor turn into a mute who’d lost all language ability the moment he faced me?
But none of that mattered now.
My phone screen lit up. HR had sent the final confirmation for my UK work visa and relocation benefits.
I hit “Accept,” went back to my room, wrapped the blanket around myself, and went to sleep.