In the fifth year of my marriage to Darnell, I suddenly began to see the leaderboards inside everyone’s minds. In my mother’s heart, I was number one. In my best friend’s, I was number two, second only to her newborn daughter. Even the barista at the coffee shop down the street ranked me at number six. Naturally, I looked at Darnell’s list with nothing but anticipation. Number one: his mother. Number two: Hannah. Me. I was right there at number two. I couldn’t stop smiling all day. Until my eyes drifted down to number six: Gina. A name I had never heard in my life. I told myself it didn’t matter. I was number two. She was just a distant sixth. But over the next few days, her name began to climb. Inch by inch. Up until she was almost neck-and-neck with me. That night, Darnell came home and wrapped his arms around me from behind, just like he always did. “I missed you,” he whispered. I looked up at the leaderboard hovering silently above his head. Gina—now sitting at number three—was still rising. “Darnell.” “Who is Gina?” The arms around my waist stiffened. Just for a fraction of a second. … 1 It was so brief. So fleeting that I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it. Darnell quickly looked down at me, his face a mask of effortless calm. “She’s a new designer on the team,” he said, smoothing my hair with a familiar, easy touch. “We’re co-managing a new account, so I’ve been showing her the ropes.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Why? You’re not actually jealous of a colleague, are you?” I looked up at him. Above his head, Gina’s name sat solidly at number three, completely untroubled. If she were really just a coworker, a sudden question from his wife should have caused at least a tiny tremor in his mental ranking. A flicker of anxiety, a shift. But there was nothing. It was perfectly still. “Oh,” I murmured, lowering my head to take a sip of water. I held the rim of the glass against my lips for a long, silent moment. The next morning, Darnell left the house twenty minutes earlier than usual. He said the morning rush hour had been brutal lately. On the dining table, he had left the usual breakfast—warm milk, a perfectly fried egg, and toast with the crusts neatly trimmed off. He had done this every single day of our five-year marriage. I stood by the door, waving goodbye and telling him to drive safely. But the moment his taillights vanished around the corner, a strange, hollow impulse made me open the location-sharing app on my phone. His car wasn’t heading toward his office. Instead, it stopped in a residential neighborhood I didn’t recognize, idling there for about fifteen minutes before starting up again. I stared at the tiny blue dot on the map, my chest tightening. The third day, it was the same time, the exact same detour. By the fourth day, I no longer stood by the window to wave him goodbye. I just watched him leave, then watched the dot on my screen pause in that unfamiliar neighborhood. Every morning after he stepped out the door, Gina’s name crept a little closer to mine. Not by leaps and bounds. Just an agonizing millimeter at a time. It was enough to keep me on edge all day. It happened at night, too. Twice, he claimed he had to work late, but his location showed him parked at a condo complex miles away from his office. I stared at the address on my screen until my eyes burned. Later that week, I sat at the dining table, watching him brew pour-over coffee in the kitchen. A sweet, floral aroma of lavender drifted through the air, settling into every corner of our apartment. It was a scent that didn’t belong to me. It didn’t belong to us. Darnell walked over, setting the mug down beside my hand. There was a faint, almost imperceptible tension in his eyes. “Try it.” I took a sip. It was sweet, smooth, with a delicate hint of lavender and steamed milk. It was a far cry from the black Americanos we both always drank. I looked up. “Since when do you like lavender lattes?” He froze for a fraction of a beat before offering a quick smile. “Just wanted to try something new.” That tiny, hesitant beat pierced my heart like a needle. That night, while he was in the shower, he left his phone on the sofa with his notes app still open. I didn’t want to pry, but my eyes caught the screen. Lavender syrup to milk ratio: 3 to 7. She likes it a bit sweeter. She. Not a name. Just a carefully placed pronoun. My finger hovered over the screen, paralyzed. The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom. I set the phone back down exactly as it was, pretending I had seen nothing. Later, we curled up on the couch to watch a movie. My head rested on his shoulder. On the screen, the characters were laughing, but I couldn’t process a single line of dialogue. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and a soft, barely visible smile played on his lips as he typed a quick reply. The entire exchange took less than five seconds. But in those five seconds, Gina’s name leaped forward on his leaderboard, pressing directly against my second-place spot. Resting against his chest, I felt his heart skip a beat. Not because of me. When he put his phone away, he instinctively tightened his arm around me, pulling me closer. It felt like an act of compensation. Or perhaps, an attempt to suppress his own guilt. I couldn’t sleep that night. A sliver of streetlamp light filtered through the curtains, illuminating his profile. He slept peacefully, his features relaxed, a soft trace of a smile lingering on his lips. I used to love watching him sleep. But that night, my gaze drifted upward. The leaderboard hung silently in the darkness above him. Number one: his mother. Number two: Hannah. Number two: Gina. Tied. I stared at those two names sitting side-by-side. It felt like a physical blow to my chest. Five years of marriage, balanced on the exact same scale as a woman he had probably known for only a few months. Gently, I pried his arm off my waist, turned my back to him, and faced the wall. I kept my eyes wide open until the room filled with morning light. The next day, while sorting the laundry, I found a crumpled receipt in his coat pocket. The name of the coffee shop was unfamiliar. The time stamp read 7:48 AM. Exactly during those twenty minutes he had started leaving early. I slowly smoothed out the paper. Two lavender honey lattes. Darnell and I only drank black coffee. He hadn’t been practicing a new recipe at home out of curiosity. He had been trying to perfect another woman’s favorite drink. Sunlight streamed over the laundry basket, but as I held that thin slip of paper, my fingers went completely numb. Eventually, I folded the receipt back up and slipped it back into his pocket. Then, I sat on the balcony, pulling my knees to my chest, staring into nothing for hours. The leaderboard didn’t lie. The receipt didn’t lie. The only liar in this house was him. Later, I looked up the coffee shop online. Following the location tags, it didn’t take long to find Gina’s Instagram profile. Her feed was filled with film photography. Pictures of stray cats, clear skies, riverfront nightscapes, and artisanal coffee. Everything looked serene, clean—like a blank sheet of paper. I scrolled down, post by post, until I reached a photo of a waterfront skyline. My thumb froze. I knew that riverbank all too well. During our college years in Boston, Darnell and I had walked along that exact stretch of the Charles River countless times. The green iron railings, the vintage streetlamps, the distant silhouette of the bridge—I could recognize them with my eyes closed. The caption was simple: “Someone took me to see the most beautiful view of the city tonight.” My breathing hitched. That was my place. Our place. But he had taken someone else, retracing the steps we had carved together. I kept scrolling. Another photo showed her study desk, and in the corner lay a fountain pen. Black body, silver clip. It was the Montblanc I had gifted Darnell years ago. When he got accepted into his graduate program, I had spent months scraping together enough money to buy it for him. I remembered how he had held my wrist, kissing it gently, and whispered, “Every time I use this, I’ll be thinking of you.” Months ago, he told me he must have misplaced it at the office. I had spent an entire weekend tearing the apartment apart trying to find it for him. It wasn’t lost. He had given it away. I touched my wrist, feeling a sudden chill seep deep into my skin. In another post, Gina had shared a screenshot of a French indie documentary—the exact same one Darnell had suddenly started streaming in the evenings. I had asked him to watch movies with me so many times over the years. He always complained they were boring, a waste of time, that he’d rather sleep. I had spent five years trying to share things with him, and I hadn’t managed to change a single one of his habits. Gina had been in his life for three months, and he had already remade his tastes and hobbies to match hers. I slowly looked up, my eyes drifting to our bedroom closet. Recently, he had bought several new shirts—sharper cuts, brighter colors, nothing like his usual muted grays. I remembered dragging him to a department store once, picking out a beautiful tailored coat for him. He had shrugged it off, saying, “I’m a guy, who cares about that stuff?” I had bought us couple’s gym memberships; he never went once. I had bought him hand creams for his dry skin; he left them unopened, complaining they felt greasy. Yet lately, he had started working out. He was wearing cologne. He was taking care of his hands, keeping them clean and moisturized. Five years of marriage couldn’t make him change. But the moment Gina arrived, he eagerly remade himself from the ground up. He wasn’t incapable of effort. He was just unwilling to put in that effort for me. That afternoon, I pulled out our wedding video. On the screen, a younger Darnell stood under the soft venue lights in a classic black tux, holding my hands. His eyes were incredibly red, brimming with tears. He had looked straight at me and said, “In my heart, you will always be number one. If that ever changes, it’ll only be because I’m no longer breathing.” I had sobbed uncontrollably. He wiped my tears away as our guests erupted into applause. I closed the video and laid my laptop face down on the table. When I closed my eyes and pictured the leaderboard, Gina’s name was now pressed tightly against mine. Darnell came home very late that night. There was a faint, pale red mark on the side of his neck. Before I could even ask, he offered a quick, casual explanation: “The collar on that new shirt is incredibly stiff. Kept chafing all day.” With that, he walked straight into the bathroom, washing away whatever scent he carried. He changed into his pajamas, slid into bed, and wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Tired today, sweetie?” He kissed the sensitive spot behind my ear. His breath was warm, his touch practiced and familiar. It felt exactly like every other night of the last five years. But once his breathing slowed and he fell asleep, I looked above his head. Number two: Gina. Number three: Hannah. I had finally been dethroned. On the very night he held me, called me his wife, and kissed me. I stared into the dark. No tears fell. There was only a cold, hollow numbness spreading from the back of my eyes, slowly freezing my entire body. The next morning, I opened Gina’s Instagram again and looked at that riverfront photo. The longer I stared at the streetlamps and railings, the more familiar they felt. Then it clicked. Just around the bend of that riverbank sat the little Italian bistro we used to frequent during our college days. It wasn’t just the pen. It wasn’t just the flavor of coffee. Even the paths we had walked a thousand times, he had retraced with someone else. I stared at the photo for a long time. There was no anger left, no burning resentment. Only a quiet, resolute thought: I have to see it for myself. I needed to see how much of his sincerity remained when he recycled our sacred memories to woo another woman. Over the weekend, I suggested going back to that Italian bistro near campus. “It’s been so long since we went to Bella’s,” I said. “I’m craving their pasta.” Darnell agreed instantly. The owner, an older Italian man named Mario, recognized us immediately. “Look who finally decided to come back!” he cheered. Darnell laughed, pulling out my chair with practiced grace. He ordered all my favorites: the truffle gnocchi, the roasted garlic bread, and chicken piccata. He even remembered to tell the kitchen to leave out the rosemary, knowing I disliked the strong herb. He chatted with Mario about our college days, recalling how I always insisted on sitting by the window, and how I’d nervously drink three cups of chamomile tea before my midterms. He sounded so natural, as if nothing had changed between us. But my eyes were fixed on the leaderboard above his head. Gina sat firmly at number two, completely unmoved. I forced myself to laugh, to jump in with nostalgic details, trying desperately to piece our past back together. But throughout the entire dinner, I couldn’t claw my way back up by even a single inch. Halfway through the meal, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “Just a quick work call,” he said, stepping outside. Through the glass door, I watched him stand under the awning, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, his shoulders relaxed. At some point in the conversation, he looked down and smiled. I knew that smile. It was unguarded, soft, the kind of smile he only reserved for someone he held incredibly close. I looked down at the food on our table. It was everything I loved. But the steam was fading, the dishes growing cold. While he stood just outside the glass, his heart had wandered miles away. On the leaderboard, Gina’s name was slowly drifting closer to the number one spot. When he returned, he immediately sensed the shift in my mood. His compensation mechanism kicked in instantly. He piled food onto my plate, offering soft apologies, blaming a demanding client. Then, looking at me as if searching for reassurance, he added, “By the way, for our anniversary next month, I took three days off. I’m taking you to Maui, just like you’ve always wanted.” The moment he said it, I instinctively looked up at the leaderboard. My name actually budged, floating up a fraction of an inch. Just a tiny, pitiful fraction. And suddenly, it became painfully clear. His kindness wasn’t a sign of returning love. It was guilt. A three-day trip to buy back his peace of mind. A beautiful, expensive receipt to clear the ledger of his betrayal. I offered a faint smile. “That sounds lovely.” My own voice sounded hollow, like a stranger’s. As we left the bistro, we passed a young couple on the sidewalk. The boy was holding the girl’s hand, his laughter bright and clear. Hovering over his head was a single, pristine name at number one: the girl walking beside him. No one else was on his list. Outside our apartment complex, an elderly couple was slowly crossing the street. The husband held his wife’s elbow, guiding her step by step. Above his head, her name sat at number one, a placement that had clearly remained unchanged for decades. I stopped walking, a sudden ache blooming in my chest. So that’s what it looks like to be someone’s absolute first choice. I turned to look at Darnell. He was looking down at his phone, typing away. Number one: his mother. Number two: Gina. Number three: Hannah. I had never actually been his first choice. Back at the apartment, he retreated into his study, claiming he had paperwork to wrap up. I sat alone in the living room without turning on the lights. In the quiet dark, the weight of reality finally settled over me. I wasn’t going to wait around anymore. I refused to watch myself slide further and further down a ranking system in my own marriage. I pulled out my phone, scrolled through a few corporate event photos Gina had posted, and figured out where she spent her lunch breaks. It was that boutique coffee shop. The next afternoon, I arrived early at the coffee shop. I ordered a black coffee and took a table in the far corner, waiting. Just past noon, Gina walked in. Short hair, a simple white blouse, minimal makeup. She sat down quietly and ordered a lavender honey latte. She looked ordinary, almost plain. But my eyes immediately locked onto the leaderboard hovering above her head. Number one: Darnell. My husband was the most important person in her world. And she was rapidly becoming the most important person in his. Their lists locked together perfectly, forming a closed, exclusive loop. And I was left standing completely on the outside. Gina opened her laptop, beginning to review some design drafts. I stood up to use the restroom. As I walked past her table, my eyes caught her phone lying face down. Tucked inside her clear phone case was a polaroid. Two silhouettes, standing side-by-side along the Charles River. The railing, the streetlamp—it was the view I knew by heart. And on her wrist, a delicate silver chain. I recognized the brand instantly. It was the same jewelry boutique where Darnell bought my gifts every Christmas. I walked into the restroom, leaned over the sink, and turned on the tap. I splashed cold water onto my face, watching it drip from my chin. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. When I came out, I picked up my coffee, walked over to her table, and slid into the empty seat opposite her. “Hi. I notice you come here quite often.” Gina blinked in surprise, but quickly offered a polite, gentle smile. “Oh, yes. I’m a bit obsessed with their lavender lattes.” I looked down at the milky, lavender-scented drink in front of her, feeling a dull ache in my chest. We exchanged a few pleasantries—chatting about the autumn weather, local bakeries, and the stray cats around the neighborhood. Her voice was soft, deliberate, completely lacking any malice or pretense. The kinder and sweeter she seemed, the tighter my throat became. “Are you here alone today?” I asked, keeping my voice light. Gina looked down, a soft blush warming her cheeks. “No, actually. My boyfriend has a lunch meeting, but he’s stopping by to pick me up soon.” Boyfriend. The word echoed in my mind, freezing me in place. She didn’t know. She had absolutely no idea. In her world, Darnell was a single, loving boyfriend. Not someone else’s husband of five years. Not a man with a home, a mortgage, and a wife waiting for him. In the narrative he had spun for her, my entire existence had been thoroughly erased. I wasn’t even a footnote. Gina’s phone buzzed on the table. She picked it up, her voice softening with affection. “Hey. Yeah, I’m at our usual spot. You’re close? Perfect. See you in a minute.” She hung up and gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. He’s here. He’s really the sweet type, always insists on grabbing me a coffee.” Before I could find my voice, the bell above the door chimed. Darnell walked in. He was holding a paper carrier with two lavender lattes. His eyes scanned the room, automatically finding Gina, a relaxed, boyish smile already forming on his lips. Then, his gaze shifted a fraction of an inch. When he saw me sitting across from her, he froze. The smile vanished, the color draining from his face in a terrifying wave. His fingers went limp. The paper carrier slipped from his grasp, crashing to the tiled floor. The lids popped off, and warm purple-tinted liquid splattered across the tiles. The sweet, heavy scent of lavender instantly filled the air. The entire café fell dead silent. Gina looked back and forth between us, entirely lost. Darnell stood near the door, looking as though he had been turned to stone. I slowly pushed my chair back, stood up, and walked toward him. The spilled coffee pooled around his leather shoes, spreading like the ruins of a dream I was finally waking up from. I stopped a foot away from him, looking up at his head one last time. Number one: Gina. Number two: his mother. Number three: Hannah. I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Darnell,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. “Do you have any idea where I rank in your heart right now?”
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