Like coming home at night and seeing the porch light already turned on.

We met when we were twenty-three.

In a grocery store.

Very romantic.

I was standing in the dairy aisle trying to choose milk when I reached for a carton of two percent.

Someone else reached for the same carton at exactly the same time.

Our hands touched.

I looked up.

Tall man.

Messy brown hair.

Glasses.

A shopping basket containing an embarrassing number of frozen pizzas.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. You take it.”

“No, you take it.”

“You were first.”

“No, you were.”

He laughed.

“You saw me?”

“You were reading yogurt labels for three minutes.”

“They’re confusing.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“How?”

“Why does some yogurt have fruit mixed in and other yogurt hide all the fruit at the bottom? Who decided that?”

I laughed.

Ten minutes later, we were sitting in the café across the street.

Neither of us ever bought the milk.

Twelve years later, we were married and still choosing each other.

Our life had become almost wonderfully predictable.

Julian left for work at 7:30 every morning.

He worked as an accountant downtown.

Coffee in a travel mug.

One sugar.

A little milk.

Forehead kiss before leaving.

If work wasn’t too busy, he called me around lunch.

“Just wanted to hear your voice.”

Every Thursday after work, he went to the gym.

That routine had been going on for about a year.

And every evening when he came home, he walked straight past me toward whatever was cooking.

He lifted the lid off every pot.

Sniffed.

“What’s this?”

Then, finally, he kissed me hello.

I always teased him.

“You might be the most predictable person alive.”

Julian considered that a compliment.

“Predictable means dependable.”

That was why Thursday felt so strange.

The front door opened shortly after six.

“Dani?”

Julian’s voice echoed through the hall.

Too loud.

Too rushed.

I stepped out of the kitchen with a dish towel in my hands.

I had been making chicken soup.

The second I saw him, I knew something was wrong.

His tie was loose.

His hair looked like he had been pulling at it.

And he kept checking his pockets.

Jacket.

Pants.

Back pockets.

“My phone is gone.”

I blinked.

“You lost something?”

“I know.”

I almost laughed.

In twelve years, Julian had barely misplaced a pen.

He looked genuinely panicked.

“I had it when I left the office. I think. I put it in my jacket pocket. Then I changed at the gym, drove home, and somewhere between all of that…”

He spread his hands.

Gone.

For the next hour, we searched everything.

His briefcase.

Every pocket.

Every folder.

His gym bag.

Shoes.

Dirty clothes.

The car.

Under the seats.

Inside the glove compartment.

Cup holders.

Door pockets.

Trunk.

I even checked grocery bags left from the previous night, despite there being absolutely no reason his phone should have been inside them.

Nothing.

We tried locating the phone through my laptop.

The map loaded.

Then displayed:

Location unavailable.