We didn’t talk about Bethany. Not even once. Not until day four. We were having breakfast on the deck. Just the sound of waves and birds, when Emily said, “Do you think they’ll ever admit it?” I didn’t have to ask who she meant.
“No,” I said. “But I think they know, and I really believe they do.” Not in a conscious, reflective way, but in that uncomfortable silence that creeps in when your favorite scapegoat walks out the door for good. They know I was always the one cleaning up her messes. They know they let it happen because it was easier than telling her no, and they definitely know now that they can’t reach for me like that anymore.
Bethany stayed with them. She didn’t find a new apartment. Her lease expired quietly, and the building relisted the unit without a problem. I know because the management company contacted me for final signature confirmation. She never reached out about it. Never said thank you. Never said sorry. She never will. But I stopped waiting for that. I don’t need the apology. I just needed it to end.