“Next Friday. I know it’s soon, but they want to move fast.”
He pulled back, looked at me with what seemed like genuine regret.
“I’m going to miss you like crazy.”
“I’ll miss you too, but it’s only two weeks.”
I smiled, already thinking about how I’d surprise him when he got back. Maybe plan a nice dinner, open that expensive wine we’d been saving.
“Hey, what if I take some time off and come with you? I could explore Miami while you’re in meetings. We could have the evenings together.”
His expression shifted just slightly, but I caught it. A flicker of something. Panic. Annoyance. Before the smile returned.
“That’s sweet, but it wouldn’t really work,” he said, closing his laptop. “The meetings are going to run late into the evenings, sometimes until ten or eleven. I’d feel terrible leaving you alone in a hotel room every night. You’d be bored out of your mind.”
“I wouldn’t mind. I could—”
His tone sharpened.
“Isla, this is work. Important work. I need to focus completely on landing this account. I can’t be worried about entertaining you or making sure you’re having a good time. This is my career we’re talking about.”
The words stung more than they should have. I felt myself pulling back. Felt the familiar guilt of being too needy, too clingy, asking for too much.
“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
His face softened immediately. He reached for my hand.
“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. I just… this is a huge opportunity, and I need to be completely focused. You understand, right?”
I nodded. I did understand, or at least I thought I did. The next two weeks before his departure, Milo threw himself into preparation. He practiced his presentations in our living room while I listened and offered feedback. He revised slides late into the night. He took conference calls at odd hours, always stepping into our bedroom and closing the door for privacy.
“Clients in a different time zone,”
he’d explain when I asked.
“Easier to catch them early morning or late evening.”
I helped him pack. We stood at our bedroom closet together, debating which shirts looked most professional, which ties conveyed confidence without arrogance. I reminded him to pack his phone charger, his good dress shoes, the lucky cufflinks his father had given him. The morning he left, I kissed him goodbye at our apartment door, straightened his collar, told him to make us proud.
“I’ll call you every night,”
he promised, hugging me tight.
“Even if it’s late, I’ll be waiting,”
I said. He rolled his suitcase down our hallway and disappeared into the elevator. I stood in our doorway, watching until the doors closed, then went back inside to what I thought would be a routine two weeks alone.
The first three days, he kept his promise. He called every evening around nine or ten. Brief conversations. He sounded tired, distracted. The meetings were exhausting. The client was demanding. Everything was more complicated than expected.
“How’s the hotel?” I’d ask, trying to keep him talking, trying to maintain connection across the distance.
“Fine. Standard business hotel. Nothing special.”
His answers were clipped, like he was eager to end the conversation.
“Listen, I should get to bed. Early meeting tomorrow.”
By the fourth day, the calls stopped. Text messages replaced them. Too exhausted to talk. Meetings ran until midnight. Love you. Client dinner went late. Heading to bed. Talk tomorrow. Still, something felt wrong. A quiet unease I couldn’t name but couldn’t shake. I told myself I was being paranoid. He was working hard. Of course he was tired. Of course business trips were exhausting. But that unease grew. On day five, I did something I’d never done before, something that would have felt like a violation of trust if our marriage had been what I thought it was. I called the Marriott Downtown Miami, the hotel he’d mentioned offhandedly in one of our brief conversations.
“Good afternoon, Marriott Downtown Miami,” the receptionist answered cheerfully. “How can I help you?”
“Hi. Yes, I need to be connected to my husband’s room. Milo Brennan.”
The sound of typing. Another pause, longer this time.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. We don’t have a guest by that name currently checked in.”
My stomach dropped.
“Can you check again? Milo Brennan. He would have checked in last Friday.”
More typing.
“No, ma’am. I’m showing no reservation under that name for the past week.”
I thanked her and hung up, my hands shaking. Maybe I’d gotten the hotel name wrong. Maybe he’d said a different Marriott. I called back.
“Actually, which Marriott location is this?”
“Downtown Miami, ma’am. Would you like me to transfer you to one of our other Miami locations?”
