I was scrolling through Poshmark, looking for some gently used furniture to fill my apartment, when I stumbled upon a peculiar storefront. The bio read: “Selling off my friends-with-benefits’ cheap junk. One good deed a day.” I stared at the shop’s handle. I recognized the username instantly. It belonged to Camille, my best friend. And the items listed in the digital display were everything I had gifted Garrett over our seven years of long-distance. There was the wool scarf I had spent three sleepless nights knitting for him back in college. Price tag: $5. The designer sneakers I had saved up for months to buy him for his birthday six months ago. Price tag: $20. I sat frozen, staring at the screen for three agonizing minutes. Then, the page refreshed, and a new listing popped up. It was a pair of custom silk pajamas. I had designed them and sent them to Garrett just last week. At the time, I had asked him if he liked them. He told me he couldn’t wait to wear them to bed. Now, they were sitting in Camille’s digital closet, priced at $15. What Garrett didn’t know was that tucked inside the collar of those pajamas was a small, hand-written note. “I’ve been offered a five-year surgical fellowship in London. I won’t be able to come back. Do you think I should go?” The suffocating anxiety of the past six months, the endless sleepless nights of agonizing over this choice, vanished in an instant. I closed the app, opened my phone, and called the chief of medicine at my hospital. “Yes, Dr. Reynolds. Don’t worry about waiting for his opinion.” “I’ll make this decision on my own.” Garrett. You thought my love was cheap. From now on, I’m keeping it for myself. … After hanging up, I searched Camille’s username across various social media platforms. I found her Instagram. It was filled with suggestive, intimate bedroom photos. “I guess I’m the perfect FWB,” one caption read. “No strings attached, on-call 24/7.” In the photos, the man’s face was blurred, but I recognized the custom silver band on his finger. The matching ring was still on my own left hand. Whenever I traveled to Chicago to visit Garrett and tried to get close to him, he would always slip out of my embrace, claiming he was too exhausted from his court cases. I used to feel so much pity for him. I’d pull my clothes back on, hide my disappointment, and run to the kitchen to make him a late-night snack. I had confided in Camille about this. She had slammed her hand on the table, seemingly furious on my behalf. “Are you stupid, Freda? Long-distance is basically raising a wild animal. He could be cheating right under your nose and you’d have no idea.” Since she lived in Chicago—the same city as Garrett—she had offered to send me updates every few weeks. “Just keeping an eye on your man for you, babe,” she’d say. And I had been so, so grateful. I curled my fingers, but I didn’t even have the strength to clench my fist. Garrett was a successful defense attorney in Chicago, and I was an OB-GYN in a busy Boston hospital. We had met in college. I was the one who pursued him, spending hours knitting that scarf by hand. He had wrapped it around his neck and smiled. “It’s so warm, Freda.” We had drifted apart after graduation, only to cross paths years later during a medical malpractice lawsuit. A pregnant patient’s baby had been stillborn before delivery, and the family sued me, claiming my choice of anesthetic had caused the death. Garrett took my case. He sat with me on the curb of the sidewalk, speaking softly, keeping me grounded through the longest night of my life. The day the case was dismissed, we officially became a couple. Ping! A message from Garrett popped up on my screen: [Coming to Boston tomorrow for a deposition! Finally get to see my wife!] My nails dug deep into my palm. Seven years. He had come to visit me less than five times. Last year, when an aggressive relative of a patient stalked me to my car, I called his emergency line in a panic. The call went straight to voicemail. It wasn’t until I scrolled through Camille’s feed today that I realized he had been playing an all-night video game session with her that very night. My phone buzzed again: [Want to FaceTime tonight? I miss your face.] A familiar, sweet prompt. Now, it made my stomach turn. I typed and erased several replies before finally sending: [I’m working a double tonight. Three back-to-back surgeries.] [Okay, see you tomorrow then.] On our very first day of long-distance, he had given me his passwords. He knew my schedule was so grueling that I barely had time to sleep, let alone spy on him. I opened my laptop and logged into his chat app. At the very top, pinned, was Camille. A new message popped up on his screen: [Freda is working tonight. Bring over those pajamas you bought yesterday.] Staring at those words, it felt as though a hole had been burned straight through my chest. With trembling hands, I shut the laptop. I didn’t go to work. Instead, I booked the earliest flight to Chicago. When I pushed the bedroom door open, the warm, intimate air in the room instantly turned to ice. The two bodies on the bed scrambled apart, their faces pale with identical terror. Garrett’s first instinct was to push Camille away. “Freda… you said you had surgeries tonight. Why are you…” On the floor lay the shredded remnants of a sheer nightgown and a discarded wrapper. I forgot how to breathe. I walked over and cracked the window open, letting the cool wind flush out the suffocating scent of sex. Garrett seemed to snap out of his stupor. He hurriedly threw on a shirt and trousers and dragged me out of the bedroom into the hallway. “Freda, she’s just an FWB. It’s not what you think. It doesn’t mean anything.” “An FWB.” He threw the term out so casually, as if it could magically sanitize what he had done. Inside my chest, something felt like it had been hollowed out by a spade. “How could you do this to me? Are you really that desperate? And Camille… is she really that cheap?” Garrett’s face darkened instantly. “Watch your mouth, Freda. That’s uncalled for.” I couldn’t stop the hysterical laugh that ripped from my throat. “What you did is what’s uncalled for!” Garrett fell silent. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a slow drag. “Look, what we did was wrong, I get it. But isn’t this just the reality of long-distance?” “You’re always busy, Dr. Davis. Every time I call, you’re running to an emergency C-section or doing rounds. We barely speak. Honestly, what’s the difference between having you and not having you? When I need someone, you’re never there.” What a beautifully twisted justification. He was the one who once promised we could overcome the distance. It’s just a matter of not seeing each other every day, he had said. We can handle it. But his way of handling it was keeping a convenient body in his bed. “Don’t you both feel disgusted?” My voice was barely a whisper, completely raw. Garrett froze for a fraction of a second, then let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Disgusted? Why? I was her first.” The air left my lungs entirely. “What?” “The night of your father’s funeral. Camille and I had a few drinks. I was the one who took her virginity.” My mind flashed back to that terrible day. Camille had claimed she had an unavoidable shift at work, and Garrett said he was caught up in a grueling civil litigation case. “You called her sobbing about your dad, and she cried with you while you comforted her. She wasn’t crying for your dad, Freda. She was in pain because it was her first time.” “Honestly, maybe it’s better this way. No more hiding. You’re busy with your career anyway, and you never really cared enough to look closely.” My blood ran cold. Looking at him, I felt a sudden, visceral wave of revulsion. This man was a stranger. I took a deep breath. “Fine.” I slid the silver promise ring off my finger and let it drop onto the coffee table. It made a sharp, hollow clink. “I’m out. We’re over—” Before I could finish, the sound of violent retching echoed from the hallway bathroom. Camille. Garrett didn’t hesitate. He bolted inside, rubbing her back, gently wiping the vomit from her mouth without a hint of disgust. “Hey, what’s wrong?” “Are you okay?” He glanced back at me, standing frozen in the doorway, his expression hardening into impatience. “Can we do this later? Just… give us some space.” I felt like an intruder in a stranger’s home. Even my own breakup had to wait until Camille finished throwing up. Ten minutes later, Garrett helped Camille out of the bathroom. Across her pale neck and collarbone was a scattering of fresh bruises. “Freda, I don’t want to lie to you anymore,” Camille said, leaning heavily against him. “I’m pregnant.” She placed a plastic stick with two distinct pink lines onto the coffee table. She reached out, grabbing my forearm with a look of mock distress. “We were going to talk about what to do today. Since you’re here, let’s just lay it all out on the table.” I stared at her, unable to move, unable to breathe. I saw the flicker of quiet triumph in Garrett’s eyes. A tear slipped down Camille’s face, tracing a path down her neck toward a tattoo on her collarbone: Garrett. Then I noticed, peeking through Garrett’s partially unbuttoned shirt, an identical tattoo in the exact same spot: Camille. All those times we had been intimate, when he closed his eyes and gripped his chest in what I thought was passion… he had been touching her name. The nausea hit me like a physical blow. I shoved them both away, ran out the door, and didn’t look back. At 5:00 AM, the harsh fluorescent lights of the operating room made my eyes ache. “Almost done here, Dr. Davis,” my surgical resident said, stitching up the patient with a smile. “So, when are we going to hear wedding bells?” “That hotshot lawyer fiancé of yours has proposed how many times now? We’re all waiting for the invitation.” I managed to force a stiff, lifeless smile. Nobody in this room knew that just hours ago, I had watched my fiancé tangled in the sheets with my best friend. To prepare for a wedding that would never happen, I had saved up years of paid time off. I had worked consecutive thirty-six-hour shifts, surviving on IV glucose drips just to keep going. Garrett used to call me late at night to scold me gently. Don’t kill yourself, babe. If you won’t take care of yourself, I have to do it for you. And I would blush, promising to slow down. I never once suspected that while he was sweet-talking me, another woman was lying just out of frame. My shift ended at 10:00 AM. That’s when Garrett showed up at the hospital lobby. He was holding a customized taro boba tea. “Drink some sugar to wake up,” he said, offering a tight smile. “I’ll drive you home.” I stared at the cup. It was Camille’s exact order. Years ago, when I visited him and asked if we could grab boba, he’d always wave it off. I’m too busy with this brief, he’d say. By the third time, he’d snapped: Why do girls always want these complicated drinks? No guy is going to stand in line to customize sugar levels. Yet here it was in my hand: room temperature, thirty percent sweetness, extra egg pudding. “Is Camille in the car?” I asked, my voice dry. “Yeah. I didn’t want to leave her alone in Chicago.” A dull, throbbing ache bloomed in my chest. We had lived states apart for seven long years, and he considered it a minor inconvenience. A year goes by in a flash, Freda. We’ll find a way to merge our lives eventually. But leaving Camille alone for a weekend was apparently too much to bear. When we got to the parking lot, Camille was already sitting in the passenger seat. “Freda, you know how bad my motion sickness is, and the morning sickness has been brutal,” she said, giving me an apologetic look. “Garrett insisted I sit up front. You don’t mind, right?” “I don’t mind.” I opened the back door and slid into the rear seat. Garrett immediately blasted the AC. Through the rearview mirror, he caught my eye. “Camille’s running hot lately. You don’t mind if it’s a bit cold, do you?” “No.” “See?” Garrett smiled. “I told you Freda is the most understanding person in the world.” I looked out the window. It wasn’t understanding. It was the slow, numbing death of caring. As we drove past a shopping center, Camille asked to stop for a restroom break. Garrett got out to accompany her. The car’s Bluetooth remained connected. A call from Garrett’s mother flashed on the dashboard screen. I watched the screen before it automatically picked up. “Garrett, tomorrow is your dad’s sixty-first birthday. Make sure you bring Camille along.” “Now that she’s pregnant, your father and I are over the moon.” “Tell her to be careful this time. We don’t want a repeat of what happened with Freda. If you two hadn’t left that massage oil spilled on the hardwood, she wouldn’t have slipped and miscarried.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. When I had lost my baby years ago, I thought it was my fault. I thought I had worked too hard, gotten too dizzy, and tripped. I had starved myself with guilt, falling into a deep depression that took months to claw my way out of. Garrett returned to the car, settling into the driver’s seat. “My dad’s birthday dinner is tomorrow. We’re going. Camille’s coming too.” I gave a hollow nod. “Okay.” I knew everything now. Just then, my phone buzzed with an email confirmation. My flight to London was booked. Departure: 2:00 AM tomorrow. The next morning, I packed my single suitcase into the trunk of Garrett’s car. When we arrived at the Mitchell family home, I carried the expensive gifts I’d bought to the front door, only to find it locked. They had already gone inside. By the time I knocked and entered, Garrett’s expression was pinched with annoyance. “What took you so long? We’re already sitting down.” I set the gifts down and realized there was no place set for me at the dining table. His mother tapped her temple. “Oh, look at my head. I completely forgot to set an extra chair.” “It’s fine, Mom,” Garrett said, barely looking at me. “Freda can just stand and grab a quick bite. She has a small appetite anyway; she’s full after three bites.” Camille chimed in with a laugh. “Right? Unlike you. Remember when you went through that phase of wanting rack of ribs every single night? I made so many plates and you ate every single bite, you pig!” “Hey, who are you calling a pig?” Garrett laughed, nudging her. They bickered playfully. In seven years, Garrett had never told me what his favorite foods were. Every phone call ended with him saying he was too tired to talk. I had tried so hard to bridge the distance, to learn who he was, but he had never let me in. Amid the laughter, Garrett noticed my silence and awkwardly placed some food onto a small paper plate for me. “Here, eat up.” Garlic butter shrimp. Celery salad. After seven years, he had forgotten I was allergic to shellfish, and that the smell of celery made me physically ill. Throughout the meal, the older couple kept cooing over Camille’s pregnancy. Occasionally, they would remember I was standing there, and a brief, awkward silence would fall. Finally, Garrett’s mother looked at me, her eyes filled with calculation. “Freda, you wouldn’t be upset if Camille keeps the baby, right? After all, you’ll be the godmother.” Garrett’s eyes were fixed on Camille, a soft, protective smile on his face. He didn’t even hear his mother’s question. Standing there, every second felt like a slow execution. I checked my watch. It was time to head to the airport. “Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, thank you for having me,” I said quietly. “But there’s an emergency at the hospital. I have to go.” Garrett walked me down to the driveway. As he turned to head back inside, I called out his name. “Garrett, could you drive me to the airport? I have something to tell you.” “Not today,” he replied instantly, without looking back. “I have to take Camille for her prenatal scan. We booked it weeks ago, and as a doctor, you know how important those appointments are.” “It’s only a thirty-minute drive to Logan Airport,” I pressed. “Freda, please,” Garrett said, his tone sharp with irritation. “Since when did you become so needy? Just call an Uber. Text me when you land.” By the time I looked up, his back was already turning away from me. A text from him popped up on my phone: [About whether we keep the baby, I’ll respect your thoughts. But you wouldn’t want your best friend to go through the pain of an abortion, would you? I know how kind you are.] I stared at the screen for a long moment, then slipped the phone into my pocket without replying. I walked down to the garage, pulled my suitcase out of his trunk, and left a small, handwritten note on his dashboard. [I’m leaving for my fellowship in London. I won’t be back for five years. We are over. You can explain the details to your parents. I wish you, Camille, and your baby a happy life.] I called an Uber and headed to the airport. After a twelve-hour flight, the wheels touched down in London. The moment I turned off airplane mode, a torrent of missed calls and messages flooded my screen.
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