A few weeks later, I flew to Seattle for my friend Katie's wedding.
Elliott, of course, was nowhere to be found.
Officially, he was "handling the Napa opening."
Unofficially, I had reached the point where I no longer knew what he was doing, who he was with, or whether I was even still part of his real life anymore.
I couldn't bring Martin either because he had an art exhibit that weekend.
So alone I went.
The wedding itself was beautiful.
Annoyingly beautiful.
Katie cried walking down the aisle. Her husband cried watching her. Half the guests cried watching both of them cry.
It was one of those weddings where love still seemed uncomplicated somehow.
Or at least mutually prioritized.
By the reception, everyone was drunk enough to become emotional.
Katie grabbed my hands at one point near the dance floor and said:
"You and Elliott are still my blueprint couple, you know."
I smiled automatically because I didn't know what else to do.
If only she knew.
About an hour later, while I was standing near the bar pretending to enjoy champagne, my phone buzzed.
Mrs. Zimmerman.
I frowned immediately.
Mrs. Zimmerman was my older neighbor back in San Francisco who treated the HOA rules like federal constitutional law.
I stepped outside the reception hall to answer.
"Hello?"
"Jonathan Stern," she snapped immediately, "I don't know what the hell you boys are doing in that townhouse, but it needs to stop immediately."
I blinked.
"What?"
"I cannot even bring myself to repeat the noises I have been hearing."
I stared out at the Seattle skyline in complete confusion.
"Mrs. Zimmerman, I genuinely have no idea what you're talking about."
"There are sex noises coming from your house."
I nearly dropped the phone.
"I'm sorry?"
"And not tasteful ones."
"What exactly qualifies as tasteful sex noise?"
"That is not the point."
I rubbed my forehead slowly.
"Mrs. Zimmerman, I'm literally in Seattle right now."
"Well then someone else is in there behaving like it's a bathhouse."
My stomach tightened instantly.
"Martin's at an art exhibit," I said automatically. "Elliott's in Napa."
"Well," she replied sharply, "unless ghosts have become sexually active, someone is definitely in that house."
I started pacing outside the venue now.
"Mrs. Zimmerman, our townhouses barely even touch. We share one wall."
"And unfortunately for me," she snapped, "that wall apparently conducts filth acoustically."
I closed my eyes briefly.
"I swear to God, if I have to call the HOA board—"
"No, no," I interrupted quickly. "Please don't weaponize suburban governance over this."
"Then fix it."
The line disconnected.
I stood there staring at my phone while something cold and awful spread slowly through my chest.
No.
No, absolutely not.
But suddenly every insecurity I'd spent months suppressing came rushing back all at once.
Elliott disappearing emotionally.
Elliott living in Napa.
Elliott barely touching me anymore.
Elliott sending me to Paris with Martin.
And Martin—
beautiful, funny, emotionally available Martin—
living in my house.
My brain filled in the rest before logic had a chance to intervene.
Within twenty minutes, I had booked the next flight back to San Francisco.
I apologized to Katie so many times she eventually grabbed my shoulders and told me to stop before I started crying in her reception photos.
Then I left.
SeaTac.
Red-eye flight.
Four miserable hours spiraling silently in seat 3A imagining every possible betrayal.
By the time I finally got home sometime after midnight, I was vibrating with anger.
The townhouse lights were still on.
I unlocked the front door hard enough that it slammed against the wall.
Elliott and Martin both looked up immediately from the living room.
And somehow, seeing them together made something inside me snap.
"What the fuck happened here?"
Both of them stared at me in confusion.
Elliott stood first.
"Jonathan—"
"I got a call from Mrs. Zimmerman saying there were sex noises coming from this house."
Martin blinked.
"What?"
"And apparently," I continued, my voice rising now, "you two thought the perfect time to carry out your little affair was while I was out of town."
Elliott looked genuinely stunned.
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, don't do that," I snapped. "Do not stand there and act confused."
Martin opened his mouth.
"Jonathan, nothing happened—"
"No," I interrupted sharply, pointing at him. "No. I see exactly what's happening here."
The room had gone deathly quiet.
"You wait for the stupid, docile husband to leave town," I continued, rage and humiliation spilling out faster now, "and suddenly you two are here together?"
Elliott stared at me like I'd slapped him.
"Jesus Christ," he said quietly.
I laughed bitterly.
"Honestly? Impressive. Really. You almost had me believing neither of you would actually cross that line."
"Jonathan," Martin said carefully, "you are making assumptions that are not true."
"Then explain it."
Neither of them answered immediately.
And somehow that silence made everything worse.
I stepped backward toward the hallway.
"You know what?" I said coldly. "Forget it."
I pointed upstairs.
"Martin, pack your shit."
His face fell instantly.
"Jonathan—"
"No."
Then I looked at Elliott.
"And if I were you, I'd get a fucking hotel room tonight."
Elliott's expression hardened slightly then, exhaustion flashing across his face.
"You're not being rational."
"I flew home from a wedding because our seventy-year-old neighbor thought someone was filming pornography in our townhouse."
"That wasn't us," Martin said immediately.
But I barely heard him anymore.
I was too angry.
Too humiliated.
Too afraid that everything my mother had warned me about might actually be true.
Right then, standing there in the middle of the living room, all I could see was betrayal.
And that was that.