Three weeks went by without a word. I had to sit across from David at dinner, watching him eat the beef stew I cooked, pretending everything was completely normal. I watched him talk about his fictional workouts, my jaw tight, holding back the urge to scream.

Then Mr. Vance called me on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. His voice was unusually quiet. He asked me to come to his office immediately.

When I sat down, he slid a cream-colored folder across the desk. Inside were dozens of photos of David. But none of them were taken near a gym. They were taken at Oakwood Cemetery, on the north side of town.

“He drives there every Saturday morning,” Vance explained, pointing to a photo of David sitting on a stone bench. “Row 14, Plot 7. He sits at that grave for exactly three hours. He doesn’t read, he doesn’t pray. He just sits there.”

My fingers trembled as I picked up the photo. The headstone was small, weathered gray granite. The name carved into the stone was Elaine Carter. According to the records Vance pulled, she had died in 2009 at the age of twenty-six.

I had never heard her name in my life. David and I met in 2012, and he had never mentioned a previous marriage or a lost love named Elaine.

That night, I waited until David finished his dinner. The kitchen was dead quiet except for the sound of the refrigerator humming. I took a deep breath.

“David, who is Elaine Carter?” I asked, my voice flat.

His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. His hands went completely still. For several seconds, he did not look at me. The color seemed to drain from his face, leaving him looking tired and old.

“Nobody,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Just an old friend from college.

She passed away a long time ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He got up from the table, leaving his half-eaten dinner, and walked into the living room. He did not ask how I knew her name. He did not get angry. He just shut down.