Skyla's note on my fridge said coffee wasn't breakfast. It was all I had left of her after my broke girlfriend vanished for five days, unaware the illness I'd confessed was a lie meant to test her. When she finally returned, she set something between us, and I covered my face and cried like a child.
The first time Skyla saw me throw away a coffee machine, she asked whether I'd lost my mind.
"It stopped working," I explained.
"Did you try cleaning it?"
"I bought another one."
"It stopped working."
She looked at the new machine sitting on the counter.
"Archie, the old one probably just needed descaling."
"I don't even know what that means."
"Clearly."
She took the old machine home.
Two days later, she sent me a photograph of it working perfectly.
FIXED. COST: $4.
I laughed.
That was Skyla.
She was twenty-four, finishing college, and working evenings at a restaurant. Her car made a terrible noise whenever she turned left. Her laptop needed several minutes to start. She bought used textbooks and planned her groceries around whatever money remained after rent. I owned a successful business and had grown up in a family where nobody checked price tags.
We'd been dating almost two years. Whenever I offered to help with tuition, Skyla refused.
"I need to know I can do this myself," she'd say.
My parents saw things differently. One Sunday, Mom asked whether Skyla knew how much our family owned.
"She's met you, Mom," I said. "She knows you're comfortable."
"That's not what I asked, Archie."
Dad was more direct.
"Be careful. Some people know how to wait until you've let your guard down."
My friends weren't much better. One had recently gone through an ugly breakup and insisted his ex had stayed for the lifestyle.
"Your girlfriend's broke, Archie. You're telling me she doesn't see an opportunity?"
I defended Skyla. Then I started wondering.
She never asked for money. Was that because she genuinely didn't want it? Or because she knew asking would make me suspicious? Once that thought took hold, I began questioning things that had never bothered me. When she cooked dinner at my place, I wondered whether she was trying to impress me. When she remembered a difficult meeting, I wondered whether she was keeping me happy.
One evening, Skyla came over carrying her laptop. The screen flickered whenever she adjusted it.
"Let me buy you a new one," I said.
"No, thanks. I've got a repair appointment."
"Skyla, I can afford it."
"It's okay, baby."
"Then why won't you let me?"
She looked up.
"Because I can handle this."
I should have left it there. Instead, I heard my father's voice in my head.
A week later, I came up with the worst idea of my life. I decided to test her. I told myself I only needed to know whether she'd stay if I had nothing left to offer.
I rehearsed the lie in my car before she arrived. When Skyla walked into my kitchen, she immediately noticed something was wrong.
"Archie? Baby, what happened?"
I sat down.
"I got some medical results."
She put her bag on the floor.
"I have a serious illness."
She stared at me.
"What?"
"The doctors say I need treatment. Soon. Or else..."
She pulled out the chair beside mine.
"Which doctor? What exactly did they find?"
"I don't have all the answers yet. I need another appointment before they'll explain the treatment plan."
"Okay. Okay, that's fine." She reached for my hand. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."
I added the part I'd prepared.
"The treatment is expensive. More than I can afford."
Skyla frowned.
"But you have insurance."
"It won't cover enough."
"What about your parents?"
"They can't help this time."
I named a figure so enormous that I knew she couldn't possibly raise it.
She repeated the amount.
"That much?"
I nodded.
For several seconds, she said nothing. Then she asked, "How much time do we have to find it?"
I thought she'd ask whether I still had money. Instead, she wanted a deadline.
"I don't know," I said.
She pulled out her phone.
"Then we need to find out."
For the next two days, Skyla barely stopped trying. She asked about treatment centers, patient assistance programs, payment plans, and second opinions. She called me during breaks between classes.
"Can you send me the doctor's name?"
"Why?"
"I'm overwhelmed, Skyla."
"Then let me help with the calls."
I told her I'd already explored every option. She didn't believe that nothing could be done.
"There's always someone else we can ask," she insisted.
I kept shutting her down.
On the second evening, she came over carrying a notebook full of questions.
"Archie, I need you to be straight with me."
My pulse quickened.
"Have you actually spoken to anyone about financial assistance?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"I don't remember every name."
She studied me.
"You're scaring me."
I looked away.
"Fine. I'll find another way."
She closed the notebook and stood.
"But if you're not going to let me help you make calls, I need a little time to see what I can find on my own."
The following morning, I received the message that began her five-day absence.
SKYLA: I'm leaving for five days. Don't call me.
I called her.
No answer.
I sent a message.
Where are you going?
Nothing.
She'd spent two days acting like she would do anything to help. Now she'd disappeared. My father's warnings came rushing back. I imagined Skyla deciding that a sick boyfriend without money wasn't worth the trouble.
On the second day, I called again.
Straight to voicemail.
I nearly told my friends they'd been right. Something stopped me. Maybe it was embarrassment. Maybe I didn't want to hear them congratulate themselves.
On the third day, I found a note Skyla had left on my refrigerator weeks earlier.
EAT BREAKFAST BEFORE YOUR MEETING. COFFEE IS NOT BREAKFAST.
She'd drawn a terrible little egg beneath it.
I stood there holding the note.
It didn't fit the picture I'd made of her. Neither did the nights she'd stayed up helping me prepare presentations. Or the afternoon she'd driven across town because I'd mentioned feeling lonely. None of those things had cost much money. I'd barely noticed them at the time.
By the fourth day, I wasn't feeling triumphant. I was checking my phone every hour. I had no idea where Skyla was. I also had no right to demand an explanation when I'd lied about something so serious. That thought was uncomfortable enough that I tried ignoring it.
Five evenings after her message, I was sitting in my living room when I heard a key turn in the front door.
Skyla came inside.
She looked exhausted. Her hair was tied back carelessly, and her jacket was wrinkled. She carried a small wooden box beneath one arm.
"Where have you been?" I demanded.
She set the box on the coffee table.
"You disappeared for five days!"
"I know."
"You disappeared for five days!"
"I called you!"
"Do you have any idea what I thought?"
She looked at me.
"I thought you might be frightened."
I almost laughed. I'd spent five days accusing her in my head.
Skyla opened the wooden box.
I recognized it. It had belonged to her grandmother. The lid was scratched, and one corner had been repaired with glue. Skyla kept her grandmother's handwritten recipes inside.