Back in Scottsdale, Victor finalized the paperwork. "Monday, 2:00 p.m.," he said. "We can serve in a way that's dignified but decisive."
"Do it with class," I said. Not to humiliate, but to end the pretending. Honesty had started this; honesty would end it.
Meanwhile, Megan had her own counsel moving, quiet and quick.
At noon, Brooke and Tyler tried to reset. They walked the Red Rock Trail—her in a sun hat, him pointing at formations like a tour guide audition. They held hands. They kissed, but less like a movie poster now and more like people trying to convince the room everything was fine.
They ate an early dinner. The staff, bless them, delivered the wrong dessert three times. Every plate piped with B + D, an inside joke from our anniversary last year that Brooke hadn't erased from the reservation notes.
"Is this a prank?" Tyler snapped at the manager, that gym charisma flickering.
"I'm so sorry, sir," the manager said, genuine and flustered. "We've had a series of mix-ups."
A live guitarist drifted through the courtyard playing a playlist I knew by heart. Our playlist. Couples swayed. Brooke stared at her napkin like it might confess something.
That night, they argued. Not loud. Not nasty. Tired.
"I wanted you to share me," she said, and the sentence sounded like a sweater caught on a nail.
"I wanted you," he said, and the you was half her and half the life he'd glimpsed through our windows.