I had noticed before, of course. I was the numbers person. I knew when Caleb’s “investing in quality” purchases got larger, when restaurant charges appeared on nights he said he was eating leftovers at home, when cash withdrawals happened after happy hours. But every time I asked him to slow down, he called me anxious. Every time I suggested we revisit spending, he said I was treating him like a child. I did not want another argument. So I let the numbers whisper while I shushed them.
Now I stared at the account and felt a strange gratitude toward my instincts.
They had been trying to help me.
I checked the credit cards next.
Two joint. One mine. I made sure the hotel was on my personal card. I removed the joint cards from my wallet app. I turned on alerts for every transaction over twenty dollars. I changed my banking password, then changed the email associated with it. It felt extreme for about three seconds. Then I remembered Tessa’s hand on Caleb’s chest, and the word extreme lost its meaning.
Mistrust is different when it has been earned.
At 1:03 a.m., I called Maya again.
“Okay,” I said when she answered. “Walk me through tomorrow like I’m five.”