Sorry, You're Three Years Too Late

Emma's POV

I'm driving to pick up framing materials when I see it. The car is parked on Third Avenue, black and sleek with the license plate ADA-2019. Adam's car. I know this building. Sarah lives here.

I pull over across the street and check the time. Ten thirty at night. He said he'd be working late tonight. "Emergency project at the office," his text said. I should leave. But my hands are still on the wheel, and the engine stays off.

Twenty minutes pass. The car doesn't move. Neither do I. My phone buzzes. Adam's text reads: "Might be really late, go ahead and sleep."

I stare at the message, then back at the car. Forty minutes. An hour. There are a few lit windows in the building. I count up to the seventh floor. 703, Sarah's apartment number. I remember it. That window is lit too.

I find a cigarette in the glove compartment. I don't smoke often, but I keep a pack around. The nicotine burns my throat. Twenty more minutes crawl by. The car's headlights never turn on. No one comes down. I crush the cigarette and start the engine.

By the time I get home, it's almost midnight. The dining table holds everything I spent all day preparing. A birthday cake. A wrapped gift. Half-finished dinner dishes in the sink. I don't turn on the lights. I sit on the couch and watch the window until the sky starts to lighten.

The sound of keys in the lock pulls me out of my thoughts. Adam walks in to find me in the kitchen. "Morning," he says.

"How'd the project go?"

"Fine, finally got it sorted." He heads into the bathroom. Water starts running.

I'm making coffee. "What time did you finish?" I call out.

"Around one, I think." His voice echoes off the tile. "Completely wiped."

One o'clock. When I left Third Avenue at two in the morning, his car was still there. His phone buzzes on the counter. I shouldn't look. But the screen lights up and I see it anyway.

"Sarah: Thanks for being there last night on the worst day ever"

I pick up the phone and stare at those words. The water shuts off.

"Is the coffee ready?" Adam emerges wrapped in a towel. I hand him the phone without a word.

"Yours."

He takes it. Sees the screen. His face changes.

"So," I say. "Where were you last night?"

Silence.

"Don't say the office." My voice is calm. "I saw your car on Third Avenue."

He rubs his forehead, that gesture he does when he's cornered. "She called me," he finally says. "She was really upset, I couldn't just—"

"So you went."

"I had to."

"Why did you have to?"

"She really needed me."

I look at him. "What about me?"

"What?"

"Today's your birthday." I point at the cake on the table. "I spent all day getting ready for this."

"I know, I'm really sorry—"

"Sorry for what? For lying or for getting caught?"

"Emma, let me explain—"

"You said you were at the office!"

"Because I knew if I told you the truth—"

"The truth? That you'd be angry?" I hear my voice shaking. "Of course I'd be angry! Your ex-girlfriend calls in the middle of the night and you run over there, then lie to me about working late!"

"We were just talking!"

"At her apartment? Until two in the morning?"

He goes quiet.

"Why can't you understand?" he says eventually. "She was in a really bad place. I couldn't leave her alone when she was that unstable—"

"And what about where I am?"

"Emma—"

"What am I to you?" The question hangs between us.

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. "I need to clear my head," he says, turning toward the bedroom.

The door closes. A few minutes later he comes out carrying a bag.

"We both need some space," he says.

"Space?"

"I'll stay at a hotel."

"Wait—"

But he's already gone. The door shuts again. I hear the elevator, then the lobby door closing downstairs. The apartment falls silent except for my breathing.

The cake sits on the table with "Happy Birthday" written across it. The candles are unlit. I pick up the wrapped gift, a frame holding a portrait I spent six months painting. His portrait. I put it back down and sit on the couch. I stay there until it's dark again.

The first day I call eight times. Every call goes to voicemail. I send a dozen texts. "Can we talk?" "Where are you?" "At least let me know you're okay?" All marked as read. No replies.

The second day I call three times. Five texts. Still nothing.

The third morning I go to his office. Anderson Investments, midtown Manhattan, fortieth floor. The receptionist knows me. "Here for Mr. Anderson?"

"Is he in?"

She checks her computer. "Mr. Anderson requested three days off."

"When's he coming back?"

"He didn't say. No emergency contact either."

I stand there watching the elevator doors open and close. Three days off. Personal matters. I walk out into the December cold. It doesn't register.

Back at the apartment, the cake is still on the table. The frosting has dried and started to crack. The gift sits untouched. My phone rings and I grab it.

It's my gallery agent. "Emma, about next month's show—"

I hang up. I sit on the couch staring at the ceiling. Where is he? With Sarah? What are they doing? I don't want to know. But I can't stop thinking about it.

That evening I open Instagram. My fingers find Sarah's profile before I can stop them. Her latest story, posted five hours ago. A blurry photo in dim light, but I recognize that hand. The long fingers, the silver ring. The ring I gave him. No caption, just a location tag for a cafe near her place. I stare at the photo until it disappears on its own. Twenty-four hours and it'll be gone completely, like it never happened.

I throw my phone on the couch and walk to the window. Rain streaks down the glass.

I remember three years ago. The graduate art show, my painting in the corner. Abstract, blue and gray bleeding together. Someone stood in front of it for a long time.

I walked over. "Do you like it?"

He turned. Handsome, sharp suit. "You painted this?"

"Yes."

"It's interesting," he said. "These lines, they're struggling but not giving up."

Most people didn't understand my work. "I'm Adam," he offered his hand. "Adam Anderson."

"Emma. Emma Gray."

"Are you an alum?"

"Sort of," he smiled. "I've funded a few artists who graduated from here."

"Oh."

"Interested? I could help you open a solo show."

"No thanks," I said. "I appreciate it, but I want to make it on my own."

He looked surprised, then smiled wider. "Fair enough. Coffee then?"

I hesitated. "Okay."

Coffee became dinner. Dinner became dates. A month later he asked me to move in. "But there's one thing," he said. "The company's in a funding round and I'd rather keep my personal life quiet for now. Can you understand that?"

I understood. Or I thought I did. "No problem," I said. He kissed me.

I didn't know then. Didn't know he'd never let go of Sarah. Didn't know I was just a replacement. Didn't know that three years later, he'd leave me for her.

I'd heard about Sarah from fragments of conversation at parties. "Adam wasn't always like this," someone said once. "He used to do anything for Sarah."

"Too bad Sarah thought she wasn't good enough for him."

"She always felt like everyone was judging her."

"She was the one who ended it."

"Broke his heart."

I never asked about her. Didn't want to know. But now I wonder. I wonder how much he loved her. I wonder how it compares to how much he loves me.

Which one is more.