The Spare Key

The Spare Key I didn’t know I had a spare key to his apartment. That was the first

thing that felt off. Aaron and I had been together for almost two years.

We didn’t live together, but I stayed over enough that his place felt familiar—my charger by the couch,

my shampoo in the shower. Still, one rule had always been clear: no spare

keys. He said it was bad luck. Said every relationship he gave a key to

ended badly. So when I found one in my bag, I thought it was a mistake.

It was tucked into the small zipper pocket, attached to a tag with his handwriting

on it. My name. I texted him immediately. Me: Did you put a key in my bag?