Three Years

*Typing…*

_A Novel of Love and Deception_

Kiki met Jay at a bar where the drinks were too strong and the music was too loud. Classic meet-cute. He spilled her vodka soda. He bought her another. He told her she had “honest eyes.”

That was three years, two apartments, and one dog ago.

The dog was Jay’s idea. _Bear needs a mom_, he’d said, holding up the rescue’s photo. A mutt with one floppy ear and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much. Kiki hadn’t wanted a dog. She’d wanted Jay to come home before midnight. But she said yes to Bear because it felt like saying yes to a future.

Bear was asleep on Jay’s side of the bed when Kiki sent Maya the hotel pin.

Kiki didn’t know Maya. Not really. Just a name she’d seen light up Jay’s phone at 2 AM. _Maya_. He’d roll over, smile at the screen, type with his thumbs like he was writing poetry. _Just a girl from the app_, he’d told Kiki when she asked. _Not serious. You know I delete those eventually._

Kiki had believed him. Because he came home. Because he cooked her pasta on Sundays. Because he’d put her name on the lease. Because three years means something.

Until it didn’t.

She found Maya the way everyone finds everything now — stalking. A tagged photo from a mutual. Then a deep-dive. Maya’s feed was careful. Coffee shots. Sunset captions. A playlist called _songs for driving at night_. No Jay. Maya was smart.

Kiki wasn’t sure what broke her. Maybe it was the photo of Jay in her own story, his arm around a girl who wasn’t her. Maybe it was the lie: _phone died, borrowed hers_. Her phone hadn’t died. It was in her hand. It was always in her hand.

Or maybe it was the message from Maya at 3:17 AM: _Hey. I don’t think you know me. But I think you know Jay._

Kiki read it four times. Then she opened her camera roll. Scrolled back three years. There was Jay on their first trip to Big Sur. Jay asleep on their couch, Bear on his chest. Jay kissing her at midnight on New Year’s, 2025. _My person_, she’d captioned it.

She typed back to Maya: _He told me you knew. That you were “poly too.”_

It was the cruelest thing Jay had ever done — making Kiki complicit in his deception without her consent. Making her the villain in Maya’s story.

When Maya sent _No. And I’m sorry._ after the hotel, Kiki finally cried.

Not because Jay was with someone else. She’d suspected that for months. The late “work” nights. The shower as soon as he walked in. The phone face-down. She cried because Maya was sorry. Because a stranger she’d never met had more decency than the man she’d shared a bed with for three years.

Bear woke up. Put his head in her lap. Kiki ran her fingers over his floppy ear.

“Your dad’s an asshole,” she whispered.

Her phone buzzed. Jay.

_Where are you? Bear’s alone. I’m coming home._

Kiki looked at the text. Then at the front door. Jay had a key. He could walk in right now and do the thing he always did — explain, deflect, make it about _his_ stress, _his_ fear of commitment, _his_ need to feel wanted.

She didn’t reply. She got up, clipped Bear’s leash on, grabbed her go-bag — the one she’d packed six months ago and hidden in the closet “just in case” — and left.

She changed the locks from her phone at 4:32 PM.

At 5:01 PM, her security cam sent a notification: _Motion detected at front door._

Jay. Standing there with his key. Trying it. Frowning. Checking his phone. _Jay is typing…_

Kiki didn’t watch to see what he sent. She turned her phone off, looked down at Bear, and said, “We’re not his anymore.”

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