I knew my relationship was over the moment he put on his shoes to go to the gas station. It sounds crazy, right? But it wasn’t about the shoes.
It was about the phone. He took it with him for a five-minute drive.Mark and I were the “Instagram Couple.” We did brunch on Sundays, spent Thanksgiving with his parents, and had just signed a lease on a new apartment.
We were three years deep, and honestly, I thought I was waiting for a ring.It was a Tuesday night. We were watching Netflix—some true crime documentary—and eating leftovers.
It was comfortable. Safe. Or so I thought.At 9:30 PM, his phone buzzed on the coffee table. He lunged for it.
Not reached—lunged.”Who’s that?” I asked, casually.”Just work. Spam email,” he said, flipping the screen face down. Then he stood up. “I’m gonna run to the gas station. Do you want anything?””No, I’m good.””Okay. Back in 10.”He grabbed his keys. Then he grabbed his wallet.
And then, he grabbed the phone.Here is the thing about anxiety: sometimes it’s irrational, but sometimes it’s your subconscious noticing what your eyes missed. As soon as the door clicked shut, my stomach dropped. We share a Spotify account.
We use it on the Alexa in the kitchen.I opened the Spotify app on my phone.Listening to: “First Date Jitters Playlist”My heart hammered against my ribs. Who listens to a “First Date” playlist on a five-minute run to get a Diet Coke?
I watched the progress bar on the song move. He wasn’t at the gas station. He was driving.Thirty minutes went by. Then forty-five.I texted him: Everything okay?No reply.At the hour mark, the front door opened.
He walked in, looking flushed, holding a bag of gummy bears.”Sorry, babe,” he said, kicking off his shoes. “Ran into an old buddy from college in the parking lot. We just started talking and lost track of time.”He smiled. It was the same smile I fell in love with.”Oh,” I said. “That’s cool. Who was it?””Just Dave.
You don’t know him.”I looked at him. I looked at the gummy bears. Then I looked at the Alexa.”Mark,” I said. “Why was Dave listening to your ‘Sex & R&B’ playlist in your car?”His face went pale.
The blood drained out of him so fast he looked like a ghost. He forgot he switched playlists on the drive back. The Spotify history doesn’t lie.It wasn’t a gas station run. It was a phone call to her.
He had been sitting in his car, three streets over, talking to the “friend” he told me not to worry about for an hour.I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.
I just realized that a man who respects you doesn’t guard his phone like a secret agent, and he certainly doesn’t curate a soundtrack for a lie.Ladies, if you ever feel like you’re being crazy for noticing the small details—you’re not.
Your intuition is just data your brain hasn’t processed yet. If the phone goes face down, the relationship is usually belly up.
