Chapter 2

Tuesday morning hit like a freight train. I barely remembered getting out of bed, kissing Kristen goodbye while she scrolled her phone with that same bright, distracted smile from last night. She’d said something about “maybe heading down later to see if Brad needed help with anything,” but I was already half out the door, mind on the pile of reports waiting for me. For once, the knot in my stomach loosened a little during the commute. Work had a way of drowning out everything else when it got bad enough.

The office was buzzing when I walked in. People huddled in small groups, whispering, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. I dropped my bag at my desk and barely had time to log in before Carlos’s voice boomed across the open floor.

“Everyone. Conference room. Now.”

We shuffled in like kids called to the principal’s office. Carlos stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, looking more annoyed than usual. He didn’t waste time.

“The cleaning company just announced a strike. Effective immediately. Apparently the owner is a cheapskate who hasn’t paid salaries in two months. They’re not coming today, tomorrow, or probably the rest of the week. Bathrooms, kitchen, trash, floors, all of it. Someone needs to step up and handle it for today. Volunteer. One person. I’m not paying overtime, but I’ll buy lunch for whoever does it.”

Silence for three seconds.

Then from the back, near the coffee machine, someone muttered just loud enough to carry.

“I volunteer Tim.” A few shy laughs rippled through the room. Nervous. Mean. Familiar. Another voice, bolder. “Yeah, Tim’s got it.” Then another. “Tim for sure.”

Four or five more chimed in, quick and casual, like they’d rehearsed it. The laughter grew a little louder, though still the awkward kind that dies fast when the boss glances over.

I felt my face burn. I didn’t look around. I just stared at the table, hands flat on the wood, pulse thudding in my ears.

Carlos didn’t even blink. He scanned the room once, saw no other hands, and shrugged.

“Fine. Tim, you’re it. You know where the supplies are. Mop, broom, gloves, all that. Bathrooms first, then kitchen, then trash run. And don’t forget your reports are still late from yesterday. Finish those by end of day too. No excuses.”

He clapped once, like that settled it, and walked out.

The room emptied fast. A couple people patted my shoulder as they passed, half-sympathetic, half-smirking. “Thanks, man.” “You’re a team player.” I didn’t answer. I just sat there until the room was empty, then dragged myself back to my desk.

The rest of the morning blurred into bleach fumes and wet floors. I scrubbed toilets, emptied trash bins that smelled like old lunches and coffee grounds, mopped hallways while people stepped around me like I was furniture. Every time someone walked by they’d give that same awkward half-smile, like they felt bad but not bad enough to help. By lunch my shirt was soaked with sweat, knees aching, hands raw from the cheap rubber gloves.

I didn’t think about Kristen once. Not about her smile last night. Not about the bathroom whispers. Not about Brad. Work swallowed everything. The humiliation of being the “volunteer” janitor for the day was so immediate, so physical, it pushed everything else out.

Around two I took a five-minute break in the supply closet, sitting on an upside-down bucket, staring at my phone. No new messages from her. Just a single text from 11:17 a.m.

Kristen: Hey babe, hope work isn’t too crazy. Thinking of making cookies later. Brad said chocolate chip are his favorite

I stared at it for a long minute. The emoji felt like a punch. Brad said. Again.

I didn’t reply. I went back to mopping.

By five the office smelled like lemon cleaner instead of stale sweat. My reports were still half-done. Carlos walked past my desk on his way out, gave a casual nod.

“Good job today, Tim. See you tomorrow.” He didn’t wait for a response.

I stayed late to finish the spreadsheets. The building emptied. Lights dimmed in the hallways. When I finally left, the sun was gone and the streets outside were dark and quiet. I walked home slowly, shoulders slumped, hands still smelling faintly of bleach. Kristen would be waiting. Probably glowing again. Probably full of new Brad stories.

I dragged myself through the front door a little after eight-thirty,, shirt clinging to my back with dried sweat, knees stiff from kneeling on tile all afternoon. My hands were red and chapped from the cheap rubber gloves, and there was a faint gray streak of mop water across one pant leg that refused to come off. The office had turned me into a walking janitor joke, and the walk home had only made it worse. Every step reminded me of Carlos’s casual shrug and the chorus of “I volunteer Tim” still echoing in my head.

The apartment smelled clean. Not just normal clean. Spotless. Counters gleaming under the overhead lights, sink empty and dry, faint lemon scent hanging in the air like someone had gone over every surface twice. Kristen was at the far end of the kitchen, wiping down the already-shiny island with a cloth, cheeks pink and glowing, hair pulled into a messy ponytail that let a few damp strands stick to her neck. She was wearing one of my old button-down shirts rolled at the sleeves and tied at the waist over her favorite yoga shorts, the fabric hugging her hips in a way that made her look relaxed and effortlessly pretty. She turned when she heard the door, eyes lighting up instantly, that bright, vibrant smile spreading across her face like the whole day had been sunshine.

“Hey babe,” she said, voice warm and full of energy. “God, you look wrecked. What happened to you?”

I dropped my bag by the entryway and peeled off my shoes, trying not to track anything filthy across the perfect floor. “Carlos made me volunteer to clean the whole office today. Cleaning crew went on strike because he’s been stiffing them on pay. I had to scrub toilets, mop hallways, empty every trash bin that smelled like old lunches. Everyone in the meeting just pointed at me and laughed. ‘I volunteer Tim.’ Then four or five more joined in. Carlos didn’t even blink. Just handed me the supplies and reminded me my reports were still late from yesterday. I finished mopping at six and still had to sit at my desk for two more hours doing spreadsheets.”

Kristen’s mouth opened in a little surprised O, then she let out a bright, genuine laugh, setting the cloth down and leaning back against the counter. “Oh my god, that’s awful. But ... Brad will find that hilarious when I tell him tomorrow. He loves those kinds of stories.”

My stomach dropped like a stone. I stood there still sweating, still filthy, staring at her. “Why would you tell Brad?”

She shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world, tossing the cloth into the sink and crossing her arms under her chest so the shirt pulled tight. “Because he tells me everything. So it’s only fair I tell him stuff too. We talk about our days, you know? All the little details. It’s just ... normal now.”

I felt the familiar twist in my gut, sharper because I was already raw from the day. “What kind of things does he tell you?”

Kristen paused, tilting her head with that same soft, happy glow still on her face. “Oh, you know. Poker wins, dumb stuff from his games, random building gossip. Like today he showed me the conversation he had with a couple of women from the building. Married women. He was laughing about how one of them kept sending him messages while her husband was in the next room.”

My pulse kicked up hard. I shifted my weight, the bleach smell on my clothes suddenly stronger. “He’s ... dating some of these married women?”

She didn’t answer straight. Just gave a small, knowing smile and tilted her head a little more, eyes sparkling. “He’s charming, Tim. Women just like him. They flirt, he flirts back. It’s not like he’s forcing anything. They message him first half the time. He showed me the chats. It was funny.” She said it casually, like she was describing what she had for lunch, but her cheeks stayed pink and her fingers played with the hem of the tied shirt like she was enjoying the memory.

“One of them is from the fifth floor—Mariana, I think her name is. She’s married to that accountant guy who’s always in a suit. Brad said she started messaging him after he helped her carry groceries up last week. Just ‘thanks again’ at first, then emojis, then asking what he was doing tonight. He showed me the screenshots. She sent him a mirror selfie in workout clothes, caption was something like ‘new leggings, thoughts?’ Brad replied ‘dangerous ‘ and she sent three laughing emojis and a heart-eyes one right after.”

I stood frozen in the doorway, the gray streak on my pants suddenly feeling like a brand. “He ... showed you all that?”

Kristen nodded, smiling wider now, eyes bright with the memory. “Yeah, he pulled up his phone while we were loading the dishwasher. Said he likes being honest with me. The other one is Carla from the lobby—she’s the one with the little kid who always says hi. Brad said she’s been liking all his gym stories for months, then finally DM’d him asking for workout tips. He sent her a voice note walking her through squats, and she replied with a video of herself trying it. Brad said her form was ‘almost perfect, just needs a little more arch’ and she sent back ‘show me in person sometime?’ with a winking face.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head like it was the funniest thing. “He was cracking up telling me. Said married women are the boldest because they know exactly what they want and their husbands aren’t paying attention anymore. He thinks it’s hilarious how they sneak around on their phones while the guy’s in the shower or watching TV.”

My hands clenched at my sides. The chapped skin stung. “And he just ... tells you this stuff? Like it’s normal?”

Kristen shrugged again, turning to grab a plate from the cabinet for my leftovers. “Why not? We’re friends. He says I’m easy to talk to because I don’t judge. Plus he asked me what I thought—should he keep replying to Carla or ghost her.

I told him to be nice but careful. He laughed and said ‘you’re too sweet, Kristit. That’s why I like hanging with you.’” There it was again. Kristit. Coming out of her mouth now, soft and playful, like she’d practiced it.

I swallowed hard. “You ... called yourself what?”

She blinked, then laughed—light, surprised at herself. “Did I? God, I didn’t even notice. He says it so much it just slips out now. It’s kind of cute, right?”

No. It wasn’t cute. It felt like someone else’s name slowly overwriting mine in her vocabulary.

Kristen slid the reheated lasagna onto the plate and pushed it toward me across the island. “Anyway, he showed me one more thing before he left. Carla sent him a voice note today—whispering so her husband wouldn’t hear—saying she couldn’t stop thinking about his ‘workout advice.’ Brad played it for me on low volume. Her voice was all breathy. He rolled his eyes and said ‘see what I deal with?’ but he was grinning the whole time.”

She mimicked his grin for a second—cocky, knowing—then caught herself and softened it into her usual smile. “He’s just ... magnetic, you know? Women notice. He doesn’t even try that hard.”

I glanced around the kitchen again to steady myself. Everything was too perfect. The counters, the sink, even the floor looked freshly swept.

“The place looks ... really clean,” I said quietly.

“Yeah,” she said proudly, stepping closer and reaching out to brush a stray hair off my forehead even though my hands were still filthy. “Brad stopped by earlier to return the lasagna dish. But he felt bad I cooked for him yesterday, so he stayed to help wash everything. He taught me this trick with the dishwasher — loading the plates at an angle so they don’t chip. We had fun joking around while we did it. Brad said real men clean up after themselves, and Brad thinks I should get a better apron because this one’s too loose.”

Brad taught me. Brad said. Brad thinks.

I noticed it then: an empty energy drink can on the far counter, silver and black, the kind he always carried. Still there. Not thrown away. Like he’d left it on purpose, a little marker of his time here. Kristen followed my gaze and laughed softly, reaching over to touch the can for a second like it was nothing.

“Oh, he forgot that. Said he might come back tomorrow if you’re working late again. Bring another one, maybe.”

Kristen stepped around the island and squeezed my arm once—quick, affectionate. “Anyway, eat something. Go shower after, you smell like a cleaning closet ... I’ll tell Brad tomorrow how you became the office hero today. He’ll die laughing.”

I swallowed thickly, the chapped skin on my hands stinging. She didn’t notice how quiet I’d gone. She just hummed a little tune and pulled the leftover lasagna from the fridge, moving around the spotless kitchen quoting the kid downstairs like he was the center of her world now.

I turned toward the bathroom without another word. The shower would wash off the bleach and the sweat. It wouldn’t wash off the feeling that I was slowly disappearing from my own home. One Brad story at a time.

I sat at the kitchen island and forced down the reheated lasagna in silence. It tasted like cardboard, even though Kristen had clearly made it with care. She bustled around me, wiping counters that didn’t need wiping, humming softly, occasionally glancing at her phone with that quick, private smile she thought I didn’t notice. Every time the screen lit up she angled it slightly away from me, like a reflex.

When the plate was empty I pushed it aside, muttered a thank-you, and headed for the bathroom. The hot shower was the only good thing about the day. Steam filled the small space, water scalding against my raw hands and aching back. I stood under the spray for longer than necessary, letting the heat loosen the knots in my shoulders. For a few minutes the world narrowed to just the sound of water and my own breathing. No Carlos. No volunteers. No Brad stories.

I dried off slowly, pulled on an old pair of sweatpants and a faded T-shirt—the kind of clothes that felt like armor for sleep—and padded back toward the bedroom. The apartment was dim now, only the bedside lamp on Kristen’s side still glowing soft yellow. She was standing next to the bed, back to me, already slipping one leg under the covers, phone in her hand.

I stopped in the doorway.

“Where are you going?” I asked quietly.

She turned, surprised for half a second, then smiled that sweet, apologetic smile she used when she knew she was about to disappoint me. She held up the phone so I could see the screen. Incoming call. Brad. The name sat there in bold letters, his contact photo—a shirtless gym selfie he must have sent her—filling half the display.