The college reunion was winding down, leaving a heavy, alcohol-tinged silence in its wake. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the streetlights into smudges of yellow against the dark glass. My boyfriend, Wilbert, stood frozen between me and Mallory, his posture stiff with indecision. To his left was Mallory—his first love, newly divorced and recently returned to the city. To his right was me, his fiancée, with a wedding date booked and paid for. A couple of our old classmates, half-drunk and leaning against the bar, chuckled at the sudden freeze in the room. “Damn, it’s pouring,” one of them said, peering through the window. “Good luck getting a cab at this hour.” “Hey, Wilbert,” another chimed in, a smirk playing on his lips. “Who’s getting the luxury ride home tonight? Want to flip a coin for it?” Wilbert had always struggled with choices. Whenever life demanded a hard line, he preferred to let fate handle the details. But tonight, he didn’t reach for a coin. Instead, he draped his heavy trench coat over my shoulders. A sudden wave of warmth bloomed in my chest. I pulled the lapels tight around myself, thinking, “He chose me.” Then he spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “Mallory’s place is all the way uptown. It’s completely out of the way. I’ll drop her off first.” He didn’t look at me as he added, “Go back inside the lobby where it’s warm. Once I drop her off, I’ll circle back for you.” Before I could process the words, he was already guiding Mallory toward the passenger side of his sedan, shielding her from the downpour with his hand over her head. The taillights cut through the wet darkness and vanished down the avenue. Behind me, the quiet snickers of our former classmates felt like needles against my neck. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. I stood there, staring into the dark rain, until a large black umbrella tilted over my head, cutting off the wind. “Kept you waiting, didn’t I? The highway was a parking lot. Let’s get you out of here.” I looked up into Connor’s familiar, steady eyes. Without a word, I slid my hand into his warm, solid palm and let him lead me away. Standing in the rain, waiting to be picked, waiting to be chosen—I was done with it. I was done with him. 1 Wilbert didn’t show up until the next morning. I was in the living room, quietly packing away the custom floral centerpieces and the sample invitations. He kept his back to me as he kicked off his loafers by the door, his voice carrying a practiced, casual note. “The storm was worse than I thought. Water flooded the exhaust, and the engine stalled out near Midtown. My phone died, so I just grabbed a room at a cheap motel nearby.” He paused, turning around. “You didn’t wait out there too long, did you?” Before he could finish his rehearsed speech, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a notification from our shared account. “Alert: Linked device detected at an unusual location for more than four hours.” I tapped the map. The GPS pinpointed his car in a luxury high-rise garage on the East Side. He had spent the entire night there, leaving only at eight this morning. It was Mallory’s address. I tossed the phone onto the sofa between us. “Care to try that again?” Wilbert froze, a glass of water halfway to his lips. When he spoke, his voice pitched higher, defensive. “Are you tracking me now?” A dry laugh escaped my throat. “You’re the one who set that up, Wilbert.” His posture stiffened. He had forgotten. Six months ago, during a brief phase of romantic insecurity, he had insisted we sync our location-sharing apps so we could “always find our way back to each other.” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Wilbert crossed his arms, refusing to offer another word. I studied him. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, but the top button of his oxford shirt was missing, and the cotton was heavily creased. Under my hand, the thick cardstock of a wedding invitation bent, then tore under the pressure of my thumb. Wilbert cleared his throat, changing the subject with a clumsy pivot. “So, who drove you home last night? I should take them out to lunch to say thank you.” It was always like this. He would make a mess, sweep it under the rug, and act as though the floor was pristine. “I got lucky. Caught a ride with an old friend,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “No need for lunch. I’ve already thanked him.” I walked over to the refrigerator and peeled off the sticky note. It read: “5 days until the wedding.” In that moment, my mind drifted back to the reunion. The exact second Mallory had walked through the restaurant doors, Wilbert’s face had flushed with a raw, undeniable ecstasy. He had dropped my hand so fast it felt like a physical slap, stepping forward to meet her. Mallory had stood there, smiling, looking just as radiant as she had years ago. Her failed marriage hadn’t dimmed her light at all. Standing next to Wilbert, they looked like the cover of a glossy magazine. Our old college crew had immediately shuffled around, leaving a vacant seat right beside Wilbert. I caught the eye of Travis, the guy who had tried to date me sophomore year. When I turned him down, he had thrown his gift into the dirt and sneered, “If Mallory hadn’t moved to London, you think Wilbert would look at you twice? Maeve, you’re just a placeholder.” I had blocked out his words back then. I chose to remember Wilbert under the Fourth of July fireworks, his eyes shining as he swore I was his forever. But standing in that restaurant, watching him pull out Mallory’s chair, pour her water, and hang up her coat, I realized Travis had been right all along. Mallory’s eyes had drifted down to my left hand, lingering on the diamond band. “I heard the wedding is just around the corner. Congratulations.” Wilbert had immediately placed a piece of duck breast onto her plate, his voice quick and dismissive. “Oh, nothing is set in stone yet. We’re still playing around with dates. Maeve’s mother wanted us to consult some traditional calendar, so we’re still figuring it out.” I had stared at him. “Wait, isn’t it next Thursday—” Before the words could fully leave my mouth, Wilbert had stuffed a spicy shishito pepper directly into my mouth. The sudden, fiery heat flared up my sinuses, forcing tears to my eyes. As I choked down a glass of ice water, the underlying message registered loud and clear. A cold wave of self-derision washed over me. I reached into my purse, pulled out my phone, and sent a single text to our wedding coordinator. “Cancel the wedding. All of it. Permanently.” Back in the present, Wilbert waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Hey. Earth to Maeve.” “What do you want for lunch? The burger joint downstairs or the ramen spot on the corner?” He reached for his phone, preparing to open his coin-flip app, but a text banner lit up his screen first. 2 “I’m suddenly craving those late-night slices from the greasy pizza place near campus.” Wilbert swiped the notification away with a speed that bordered on frantic. He snatched his jacket off the chair. “Actually, the office just messaged. Major client emergency. Grab some takeout for yourself, okay?” He rushed out the door, his mind so consumed by his destination that he didn’t even notice the half-packed boxes lining the hallway. I took the sticky note from the fridge, tore it into tiny pieces, and tossed it into the trash can along with the final mock-up of our wedding programs. Once the wedding clutter was gone, our small apartment felt incredibly hollow. The night before, when Connor had carried my bags inside and flicked on the lights, he had let out a sharp scoff. He had bypassed Wilbert’s scattered shoes, settled into our single armchair, and shaken his head. “You’ve officially lost your mind,” he had said. “You could be living in a three-story brownstone in Boston, and instead, you’re squeezing into this shoebox with a guy who treats you like an option.” For once, I hadn’t defended Wilbert. Years ago, Wilbert had looked at me and said, “I want to build a life in New York with you from the ground up, with my own hands.” So, I had declined the condo my parents offered to buy us, ignored Connor’s offer to co-found a creative agency in Boston, and packed my life into a U-Haul to move here with Wilbert. It felt incredibly foolish now. “Are you actually ready to go home?” Connor had asked, his voice softening. I nodded. “I am.” “No cold feet?” I reached out my pinky. “If I try to back out in three days, you have my full permission to drag me out of here.” Connor had hooked his pinky around mine, a faint smile touching his lips. “It’s a deal.” After clearing out the apartment, I went to our office, printed my resignation letter, and walked into my manager’s office. “Come in,” he said without looking up. I laid the warm paper onto his desk. He read it, showing very little surprise. He had pulled me aside months ago to tell me I was wasting my talent at this firm. He slid a glossy business card across the desk—a partner position at one of the top agencies in Manhattan. At the time, I had pushed it back. “I appreciate it, but Wilbert still needs me here.” We had joined the firm together after graduation. Wilbert had talent, but his pride was fragile. The moment a client questioned his designs, he’d slam his laptop shut and walk out. With our rent and expenses mounting, I spent my nights closing deals, only to hand the accounts over to him. “Wilbert will be handling your account from here,” I would tell the clients. “He’s the real genius behind the work.” When he won Top Producer of the Year, he had spun me around our tiny kitchen, laughing. I had convinced myself that my sacrifices were worth it. But today, I looked at my manager and nodded. “I’m sure.” As I walked out of the building, my phone vibrated in my pocket. “Hi, is this Maeve? I’m calling from the bridal boutique regarding your custom gown…” I signaled for a taxi. “I don’t need it anymore. You can cancel the order.” The consultant hesitated. “Oh… actually, Ms. Maeve, perhaps you should come down to the shop. There’s a slight issue.” Confused, I gave the driver the boutique’s address. 3 The moment I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the boutique, I heard a familiar voice from the fitting rooms. Mallory stood in front of the mirrors, wearing my custom silk gown. The delicate side zipper was visibly strained, a tear running along the seam. “The quality of this designer is honestly disappointing,” Mallory was telling the stylist, her face pinched. “I barely pulled it up and it ripped.” The consultant looked panicked. “But ma’am, this was custom-measured specifically to Ms. Maeve’s frame. It’s bound to be tight on anyone else.” When they saw me walk in, the room went dead silent. Wilbert stepped forward immediately, positioning himself like a shield in front of Mallory. I didn’t look at either of them. I walked straight to the counter, handed my credit card to the manager, and paid off the remaining balance. Then, I picked up a heavy pair of fabric shears from the counter, walked over to the pedestal, and sliced a massive, jagged tear right through the silk train. Mallory gasped, her eyes immediately filling with tears, looking smaller and more fragile than ever. Wilbert grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and angry. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I met his gaze, my voice deadly calm. “It’s my dress. I paid for it. I can tear it to shreds if I want to.” “The real question is, why is she wearing my wedding dress?” He snatched the shears from my hand, kneeling down to inspect the ruined hem. “Mallory’s ex-husband never gave her a real wedding. She’s never even had the chance to wear a gown. I just wanted her to feel what it was like.” He stood up, his patience entirely gone. “And you just ruined it.” “You’re a woman, Maeve. I thought you, of all people, would understand what a wedding dress means.” Looking at the cold, accusatory stare in his eyes, I realized I had never truly known this man. The hypocrisy was staggering. “If you understand that so well,” I whispered, “did you ever stop to think what this dress meant to “me”?” But Wilbert wasn’t listening. He turned his back to comfort Mallory, gently helping her step out of the tight silk. “Stop acting like a child,” he said, throwing the crumpled, torn dress over my arm, knocking my hair out of place. “Since you decided to destroy it, you can deal with the mess.” He took Mallory’s hand and walked out. The stylist stood there, holding her breath, looking at the floor. I picked up my purse and patted her shoulder gently. “Throw it in the trash,” I said. Neither the dress nor Wilbert belonged in my life anymore. 4 I went back to the apartment and collapsed onto the bed. My stomach had been cramping all morning, and suddenly, a violent wave of nausea hit my throat. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up until my ribs ached. When I finally flushed and stood up, leaning against the sink, I realized Wilbert was standing in the doorway. He was pale, his eyes wide and trembling. “Are you… pregnant?” he asked, his voice shaking. I leaned my head against the door frame, a bitter, dark amusement washing over me. The vomiting had left my eyes watery, but I didn’t correct him. “Yes,” I lied, looking him dead in the eye. “I just found out. Do you want to keep it?” Wilbert’s face went entirely blank. He began patting his pockets, his fingers trembling as he searched for something. “We… we should flip a coin. Let fate decide.” He couldn’t find one. I walked over, reached into my pocket, and pressed a heavy, circular metal token into his palm. “Heads we keep it. Tails I get an abortion. Flip it, Wilbert. Let’s see what the universe wants.” I watched him. He tossed the token into the air, caught it on the back of his hand, and slapped his other palm over it. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked in the silence. Finally, Wilbert slowly lifted his hand to look. “Tails,” he said, his voice flat as he pocketed the metal piece. “Maeve, we’ll have other chances. It’s just… the timing right now is completely wrong.” I looked at him, wanting to ask when the timing would ever be right for me. I wanted to tell him that there was no baby, and that the token I gave him was a double-tailed novelty coin I’d kept from an arcade years ago. But I said nothing. The silence was my final answer. As I packed the last of my sweaters into my suitcase, my phone began vibrating continuously on the mattress. I picked it up. Our old college group chat was flooded with notifications. “Did you guys see Mallory’s new video? I can’t believe Maeve did that.” “I knew something was off at the reunion. The ex-wife meets the insecure fiancée. No wonder Wilbert left her standing in the rain.” “The first love always wins. It’s a universal law.” Someone had forwarded Mallory’s latest video. The thumbnail was a selfie of her and Wilbert, smiling against a dark skyline. The title read: “A Date with My First Love.” The montage showed them eating pizza at our old college spot, riding the Ferris wheel at the pier, her trying on the wedding dress, and finally, standing on a rooftop at midnight. It was the exact rooftop where Wilbert had proposed to me. In the video, Mallory looked up at him, her voice filled with sweet longing. “It’s a shame I missed the fireworks you planned for me all those years ago. Did you ever make that custom display with my name in the sky?” Wilbert’s face was half-hidden in the shadows, but his voice was clear. “I did.” My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. The final piece of my naivety shattered. I remembered the night he proposed, how his eyes had looked right past me, staring into the empty sky behind my head. The display hadn’t been for me. The letters spelled out “Mallory”. Our entire relationship had been a mistake from day one. In the video, a massive display of pyrotechnics suddenly erupted, lighting up the sky. Mallory began to cry, and the comment section was filled with thousands of heart emojis and messages of support. Someone asked: “Why did you guys ever break up in the first place?” Mallory had pinned her reply: “Because of someone else. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have spent years feeling homeless in a foreign country.” The internet moved fast. Within minutes, my social media accounts were flooded with vicious comments and death threats. I stood up, walked to my desk, and pulled out the folder containing every wedding receipt, our proposal video, and the security footage from the bridal boutique. I had kept everything. I drafted a long, detailed post, attaching the receipts and the footage. Right before I could hit ‘Post,’ the phone was snatched out of my hand. Wilbert stood there, his face dark with fury as he read the screen. “You do this, and you’ll destroy Mallory’s life.” Without hesitation, he deleted the draft, threw my phone onto the hardwood floor, and stomped on it until the screen shattered into webbed glass. Then, he grabbed the paper folder, ripped the receipts into shreds, and threw them into the trash can. Something inside me snapped. “She is destroying “my” life!” I screamed, lunging forward, my finger digging into his chest. “Your scale has never tipped in my favor, Wilbert! Not once! Your choices only ever had one damn answer, and it was never me!” “I hate you. I hate every single second I spent with you.” I grabbed my suitcase and turned for the door, but he grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, his eyes bloodshot. “Not until this entire media storm blows over!” “Let me go!” “I don’t think so,” a dry voice echoed from the doorway. Connor stood there, a thick coil of nylon rope slung over his shoulder, a cold smirk on his face. “Three days are up, Maeve. I’m here to take you home.”
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