Rein Barrett

The sunset bled across the windows of the Golf Club's restaurant, staining the glasses amber. Alexa waved me over with the patience of someone trained by years of disappointment. I was late again. I was always late. Plans bored me halfway through them. Lucas stood when I reached the table. The man beside him did not. “Rein,” Alexa said carefully. He looked up once. Dark suit. Tired eyes. Wedding band gone but mark still visible in the pale mark around his finger. Later, Alexa cornered me near the bar. “Don’t,” she said. “Why?” “He collects ruins.” I laughed like it was a joke. Rein married Lena at 20. They drowned in unpaid bills before they learned how to speak to each other. The divorce dragged through courtrooms & borrowed apartments. Then came Marta. Family arrangement. Respect first, affection later. She cheated anyway. Ersy lasted longest. Two years. Engagement ring. Gym mornings. Shared passwords. Then he found clinic papers in her drawer. She had ended a pregnancy alone because children did not fit her schedule. After that, he stopped pretending to believe in permanence. When we started seeing each other casually, he said it across my kitchen counter while buttoning his cuff. “No future. If that changes for you, leave.” I said "fine" too quickly. Months later he got promoted & transferred to Dallas. He packed in silence while I stood beside half empty boxes. “This is easier,” he said. “For who?” He zipped the suitcase shut. After he left, people liked me better. I arrived on time. Finished projects early. Smiled less. My boss called it growth. My parents, responsibility. Alexa handed me his address two months later without comment.