Chapter 2: The Stakeout

My girlfriend works as a dance instructor at a kids’ studio in Maple Heights.

Whenever I wasn’t busy, I drove her to and from work. It’s not a fancy part of town, but it’s pure suburbia—rows of little shops—nail salons, pizza joints, a Dollar General on the corner. There’s a faded mural of ballerinas on the studio wall. I know almost everyone in her circle. We’d grab Dunkin’ on Saturdays, run into other teachers, even wave at parents in the parking lot. It always felt like a small-town scene, even though it’s just outside Cleveland.

I thought about it all night, but I still couldn’t figure it out: if she really cheated on me, who could it be with?

The next morning, I drove her to work like usual. Out of nowhere she told me, “You don’t need to pick me up tonight.”

“I have something to do.”

“You’ve been working overtime a lot lately, right? I don’t want you to wear yourself out.”

I stayed quiet. That was weird. She’d never been so considerate before. Usually, she’d get mad if I couldn’t pick her up—last month she’d chewed me out for being late because of a flat tire. If something’s off, there’s got to be a reason. My stomach tightened. I kept my face neutral, but my thoughts were spinning.

I agreed out loud.

After a whole day of torment, that night I drove straight to her studio, parked where she wouldn’t spot me, and waited. The Red Bull tasted sour on my tongue. Every time a car door slammed, I flinched, half-expecting her to appear. I scrolled through Instagram, pretending not to care, but my eyes never left the entrance.

Around nine, parents started coming out with their kids. A few of her coworkers left too, laughing and calling goodnight as they got into their cars. The evening air was chilly—the kind that makes your breath show. But my girlfriend was nowhere to be seen.

Damn.

Something really is up. I slumped lower in my seat, anxiety prickling up my spine. I watched the last of the cars pull out, headlights sweeping over the cracked asphalt.