My husband said the signal at sea was too weak to text me back — until his ex posted thirty-one screenshots of their nightly video calls. *** My husband worked as a communications operator on an oceanic research vessel — and I could never reach him. Every time he shipped out, he’d say the same thing: signal’s unstable at sea, totally normal if it takes three to five days to reply. I believed that for two whole years. Until his ex, Molly Fuller, started posting screenshots of their video calls. Thirty-one calls in a single month. The shortest one — forty minutes. The image was so crystal clear I could see the deck behind him and the stars in the sky. I scrolled back through my own chat history. The longest I’d waited for a reply? Fourteen days. Two words: Mm-hmm. After that, I learned my lesson. No more staying up late, staring at my phone, waiting for the screen to light up. No more sending long paragraphs about how much I missed him. My messages shrank from three lines to one: [Stay safe.] Then two words: [Be well.] Then just a single period. And then — nothing at all. The next time he docked and came home, he frowned at me. “How come you never text me anymore?” I smiled. In three days, our divorce hearing was scheduled — and he didn’t even know. ··· Declan Reid stood in the doorway, duffel bag still in hand. I used to change the sheets in advance, drive down to the pier to meet him, even line up his slippers facing outward so he could step right in. Today I was just sitting at the dining table, sorting through paperwork. He stared at the thick stack of documents, brow furrowed. “Izabella. I’m talking to you.” I pressed down on the stapler. A soft click. “How many days are you staying this time?” That caught him off guard. His tone softened slightly. “A week. Heading back to the ship next week. Tomorrow night there’s a banquet for the crew.” For the past two years, every time he came ashore, he said he was exhausted — walked in the door and collapsed into bed. But on Molly’s Instagram, he was strolling along the pier with her, helping her pick out equipment, staying on video calls until two in the morning. I kept my head down, organizing files. Said nothing. Declan set a gift box on the table. “This is for you. I missed our anniversary — I was at sea. Making up for it.” My fingers froze. I opened the box. Inside was a seashell bracelet. The edges were rough, barely sanded down. The tag under it read: 50% off. Before I could even open my mouth, my phone buzzed. Molly had posted on Instagram. In the photo, she stood on the pier, a deep-sea blue pearl necklace around her neck. In the corner of the frame was Declan’s sleeve. [Someone remembers I’m afraid of the dark, so he gave me a piece of the ocean.] I slid my phone across the table to Declan. He glanced at it. His expression shifted — then smoothed over just as quickly. “That necklace is a prop for her documentary. She’s just borrowing it. Yours is more of an everyday thing — more your style.” I nodded. “Oh. So Molly gets deep-sea blue pearls. I get seashells on discount.” He seemed thrown by that. Before he could respond, his phone rang — a video call, with Molly’s name on the screen. Declan answered almost on instinct. On camera, Molly was wearing a black windbreaker. I recognized it. Declan had bought it last year before shipping out. He said the windproofing was top-notch, couldn’t go to sea without it. Molly’s voice was hoarse. “Declan, I think I have a fever. The pharmacy’s closed and I’m all alone here. I’m kind of scared.” Declan looked at me. In that one look — I saw the conflict. And the apology of someone who’d already made up his mind. “Izzy, she just got to port. She doesn’t know anyone around here. I’ll drop off some medicine. I’ll be right back.” I watched him grab his car keys. “You just got home. We haven’t seen each other in months.” He frowned. “Don’t be like that. She’s sick.” The door closed. The apartment went silent again. I sat at the dining table and placed the seashell bracelet into a plastic evidence bag. Labeled it. [Difference in gifts.] Then I texted Milo Mainse, my lawyer. [Add one more item.] Milo replied almost instantly: [Got it.] Half an hour later, Molly sent me a photo. A box of medicine. A glass of hot water. Declan’s hand on hers. [You don’t mind, right, Izabella?] I replied: [Not at all.] After I hit send, I plugged in the voice recorder to charge. The next evening, Declan sent me a location pin. [Welcome banquet at seven. Don’t be late. My boss and colleagues will all be there. Don’t embarrass me.] I stared at the message, then dropped the voice recorder into my bag.
The welcome banquet was at a hotel near the port. By the time I walked into the private dining room, it was already packed. Declan was in uniform. Molly sat right next to him, draped in his crew jacket, his comms badge pinned to her chest. I knew that badge. Before his last deployment, I’d asked if I could keep one as a memento. He said shipboard equipment was strictly regulated — family members weren’t allowed to take anything. So I didn’t talk about it anymore. But now… it hung on Molly’s chest, like some kind of unspoken claim. Declan spotted me and pointed to a seat by the door. “Sit over there. The main table’s all crew. It’d be awkward if you sat here.” Molly looked up with a little smile. “Oh, Bella’s here! Declan, why don’t you let her sit next to you? I can move to that seat.” She said the lines, but didn’t budge an inch. Declan muttered under his breath, “It doesn’t matter where she sits.” I sat down by the door and quietly switched on the voice recorder in my bag. The dinner hadn’t been going long before the teasing started. “Molly and Declan — best team on the ship. One films the ocean, the other connects it.” “Honestly, back when you two were together, we all said you were perfect for each other.” “Declan really takes care of Molly, huh? Signal’s garbage out there, but her video calls never drop.” Declan just laughed it off. “Come on, knock it off.” He didn’t look at me. Molly ducked her head, the tips of her ears turning pink, like someone had touched on something she wasn’t supposed to admit. The food arrived. Declan picked the belly meat off the fish and placed it on Molly’s plate. “Stay away from the bony parts.” Then he swapped her iced drink for hot tea. “Your stomach’s bad enough — why are you drinking something cold?” I stared at the dressed crab in front of me. He knew I had a weak stomach. He knew I couldn’t handle too much seafood. The first year we were dating, he used to call ahead to restaurants and ask them to prepare hot soup for me. At which point, the person he remembered became Molly? Molly picked up her glass and walked over to me. “Bella, let me make a toast. Actually, I’ve been wanting to apologize to you. Declan gets so lonely out at sea. Sometimes I’d reach out just because I was worried the pressure was getting to him.” A few people chimed in right away. “Izabella, you’ve gotta understand his job. The mental toll on a communications operator — most people can’t even imagine.” “Don’t take it personally, Izabella. Molly’s an old friend, not some stranger.” “Declan’s a good husband overall, right? You guys are young — don’t blow this out of proportion.” I looked at their faces, one after another, all so matter-of-fact. I almost laughed out loud. “31 video calls in one month. The shortest was forty minutes. Is that part of the job too?” The room went dead silent. Declan’s face darkened. “Izabella. You really have to do this here? In front of all of them?” Molly’s eyes turned red instantly. “Izabella, you… you’ve got it wrong. I’m making a documentary — I needed to understand conditions on the ship. Declan was just helping me verify technical details…” I pulled out my phone and lit up the screen. “‘Verifying technical details’ requires singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at two in the morning?” Molly’s composure cracked for a split second before softening again. “I was in a really dark place that night. He was afraid something might happen to me.” Declan jumped in. “Izzy, Molly really was struggling last year. I couldn’t just watch my friend fall apart.” My friend. Those two words were like the ultimate cover-up. I didn’t push it further. I set my teacup down. The mood was ruined. No one cracked another joke at my expense for the rest of the night. Declan glanced over at me several times, his eyes full of irritation. Halfway through, I went to the restroom. Molly followed. She stood in front of the mirror reapplying lipstick, a faint smile on her lips. “You’re recording, aren’t you, Izabella?” I didn’t deny it. She twisted the cap back on. “You really don’t need to be this guarded around me. If Declan actually cared about you, nothing I said would matter.” I turned on the faucet. Water ran over my fingers. “You know, he always reaches out to me first when he’s at sea.” “The stars, the storms, when they’re pulling into port — I always know before you do.” The water kept on running. “You know he’s married.” Molly looked at me through the mirror. “I do. That’s why I never made a move. He’s the one who can’t let go.” She pulled out her phone. On the screen was a screenshot. [She stopped messaging. Peace and quiet.] The date was the exact day I stopped sending him a single period. Molly’s voice dropped low. “Izabella, the thing men fear most isn’t a woman who makes a scene. It’s a woman with nothing to offer who still won’t withdraw gracefully.” I dried my hands. “Save that line for court.” When I walked out, Declan was standing at the end of the hallway, waiting. He looked at me, visibly annoyed. “The second you show up, everyone’s uncomfortable. Izabella, can you please stop dragging our personal problems into public?” I looked up at him. “I’m going to my parents’ tomorrow.” His brow furrowed tight, his eyes full of impatience. “I barely have any days off. How long are you going to keep this up?” I walked past him toward the dining room. The red light on the recorder was still on.
Back home, I started packing my clothes. Declan stood in the bedroom doorway. His face was dark. “If you move out now, our parents are going to know we’re fighting.” I folded my everyday clothes into the suitcase. “Not a fight. It’s a separation.” “Izabella Lane.” When he used my full name, it always came with this forced patience — like he was trying very hard not to lose his temper. “I’ll admit I’ve been in touch with Molly too much. But you can’t twist a normal friendship into something dirty.” I stopped putting my dress into the suitcase.”I texted you at three a.m. with stomach cramps. You took fourteen days to reply. That same night, you were on a video call with her for an hour.” Declan frowned. “There are rules about communications on board. You can’t just reply to personal messages whenever you want.” I laid a stack of printed screenshots on the bed. March 15th. I had a 102-degree fever and asked if he could just send me one word back. That same night, Molly posted a call screenshot — 63 minutes. April 20th. A pipe burst at home. I rushed back from work and dealt with it alone until past midnight. Molly posted a reel — Declan showing her the moonlight over the ocean on video. May 9th. My dad had a sudden heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. I stood at the billing counter, hands shaking so badly I kept typing the wrong PIN. Declan was singing “Happy Birthday” to Molly. Someone was whistling in the background. … He stared at those pages for a long time before opening his mouth again. “Molly was depressed during that period. Her family situation was bad too. I was afraid she might do something to herself.” I let out a small laugh. “The day my dad went into surgery, I was afraid too.” He looked up at me. Something in his expression cracked, just for a second. His phone cut through the silence. Molly’s special ring tone. Declan picked up and hit speaker. On the other end, Molly was crying so hard she could barely breathe. “Declan, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come to the banquet. Izabella cornered me in the bathroom — she said she’d expose me, said she’d make sure I never work in this industry again.” Declan’s head snapped toward me. “…you threatened her?” I kept packing. “The hotel has security cameras.” “No need to check.” His voice hardened. “Molly wouldn’t lie about something like this.” I stared at him. Two years. Every time I was hurt, I needed evidence to prove myself. Meanwhile, all Molly needed was tears, and he took it as fact. Molly was still weeping: “Am I causing too much trouble? I just didn’t want you to be alone out there with no one to talk to…” Declan lowered his voice. “Don’t cry. It’s not your fault.” After he hung up, his eyes locked onto me, heavy and cold. “Why do you have to go after someone who’s already struggling?” I snapped back calmly. “Does she have a diagnosis?” “Izabella, do you have to be this heartless?” I pulled another file from the drawer. It was a message from last winter. [Declan, I can barely hold it together. The apartment’s freezing, my stomach’s killing me. I’m not trying to bother you. I just need to hear your voice.] I’d sent that message to him and only him. But that afternoon, Molly had forwarded me a screenshot with a note attached: [Izabella, you REALLY need to see a doctor:)] I held the screen up to his face. “You forwarded my message to her?” Declan’s face changed. “I just wanted her opinion on whether you’d been emotionally unstable. She took a few psychology courses back then.” The glass on the nightstand slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. A shard sliced across my palm. Blood came fast. Declan saw it. But his first move was picking up his phone and texting Molly. [She’s losing it. Don’t be scared.] I looked down at my hand. Turns out, when you hit a certain point, even pain could be on a delay. I pressed a tissue against the wound, grabbed my bag, and walked out. … The lights in the ER hallway were blinding white. Milo Mainse was waiting by the entrance, holding a copy of the court summons. He saw my hand, went to the nurse’s station for antiseptic cotton, then handed me the paperwork. “Court date’s confirmed. Three days from now, 9 a.m.” I took it. Milo hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to try mediation?” I looked at the thin cut across my palm. “I’m sure.” My phone buzzed. A text from Declan. [you really freaked Molly out. i’m going to check on her tonight. calm down first.] Milo glanced at it but said nothing. I screenshotted the message and saved it. The next morning, Declan called. “I’m taking Molly to the lighthouse today to shoot some footage. Your mom’s follow-up appointment — just go by yourself.” I looked at the appointment slip in my hand. “You promised you’d come with me.” His reply was instant. “It’s a follow-up, not surgery. Don’t use my family to pressure me.” And my mom heard every word.
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