Chapter 3
If anyone wanted to know what a thirty-year-old single male cop's apartment looked like, the answer was: prison cell, but with higher rent.
"This is it," Mike said, handing me the keys. He looked as nervous as someone about to take a job interview.
I looked around. One couch that appeared to have been purchased sometime in 2008. One coffee table with a stack of police training manuals on top. A TV mounted on the wall with absolutely no decorations around it. The kitchen had basic appliances, but it looked like no one had ever actually used them.
"Mike," I said slowly, "where do you eat?"
"Usually takeout. Or protein bars."
I married a man living in a post-apocalyptic movie. The only thing in this apartment with any personality is a photo on the fridge that looks like him with a German Shepherd.
"Is that your dog?" I pointed at the photo.
"Rex. He's at my parents' house. Figured he'd be happier with a yard."
First humanizing detail. Maybe there was hope.
"Okay," I set down my suitcase, "so where should I put my stuff?"
Mike pointed toward the bedroom. "Closet's pretty empty. I don't have a lot of clothes."
I opened the closet door. He wasn't lying. Five identical white shirts, three pairs of jeans, two suits, and uniforms. That was it.
"Mike, this is going to sound weird, but... do you have any hobbies? Like, what do you do for fun?"
He thought about it. "I go to the gym. Watch the news. Read case files."
"For fun?"
"Crime doesn't take breaks."
I married Batman, except he doesn't have Wayne Manor wealth, and he doesn't have any interesting gadgets. Just depressing dedication and an apartment as empty as a museum.
"Right," I said. "Well, I brought some things to... brighten up the place."
Two hours later, Mike watched me arrange scented candles on the coffee table with an expression like he was watching me defuse a bomb.
"Are those... pink?"
"They're coral sunset. Totally different."
"But they're pink."
"Mike, do you have something against the color pink?"
"No, it's just... I've never had pink things in my apartment before."
Babe, you've never had any color of anything in your apartment. This place's color palette is "cell block gray" and "sadness beige."
My workday started normally until I realized I was now a married woman and should probably stay in touch with my husband.
At 2 PM, I sent my first text:
Jess: "Hey babe! 💕 How's your day going? I was thinking maybe we could grab dinner tonight? There's this new sushi place in Brickell that has amazing reviews on Yelp! 🍣 Let me know what you think! Miss you! 😘"
Three hours later, the reply came:
Mike: "K"
I stared at my phone screen, making sure I wasn't hallucinating.
K.
Just K.
This man responded to my four lines of text plus three emojis with a single letter. This is either the highest form of passive aggression, or he genuinely thinks K is an acceptable response.
I decided to try again:
Jess: "K as in okay to sushi, or K as in you're too busy to talk? Just want to make sure I understand! 🤔"
Mike: "Busy"
A complete word. We were making progress.
Jess: "I get it! Just let me know when you're free. I'll be at home working on some posts. Take care! 💖"
Mike: "👍"
One emoji. He learned to use emojis! Even though it was the world's most boring emoji, this was progress.
At 8 PM, my phone buzzed. Text notification.
Mike: "Home late. Case."
Three words. This is all the information I get about my husband's workday. "Case." What case? Is he arresting drug dealers or investigating parking violations? Is he safe? When is he coming home?
I typed:
Jess: "Okay! Be safe! I saved you some leftovers in the fridge. There's also ice cream if you want something sweet later 🍦 Text me when you're heading home? Love you! ❤️"
No reply.
At 11 PM, I heard keys turning in the lock. Mike quietly entered, looking exhausted.
"Hey," I said from the couch. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Long day." He walked to the fridge and found the Thai food I'd left. "Thanks for dinner."
"Did you see my text about texting me when you're coming home?"
He paused. "Sorry. Phone died."
Phone died. Of course. That explains why he didn't reply for three hours, but it doesn't explain why his communication skills are like a teenager's.
I woke up the next morning to find Mike already gone. There was a note on the nightstand:
"Early shift. Be back tonight. - M"
Not "Good morning beautiful" or "Have a great day" or anything a normal husband would write. Just police report-style factual information.
I took a photo of the note and sent it to my group chat:
Jess: "This is how my husband says good morning 📝😐"
Madison: "OMG Jess what happened to romance?"
Ashley: "At least he left a note? My ex just disappeared for three days"
Taylor: "Honey, you need to train him. Men are like puppies."
Train him. Train my husband to learn basic human communication like training a puppy. That sounds romantically heartbreaking.