The day before Valentine’s, my boyfriend told me he had a three-day work trip to New Orleans. I offered to come along, but he said: “It’s a company project. Bringing you wouldn’t be appropriate.” The very next day, I saw Chloe—my best friend—post on Instagram: a nighttime shot of St. Louis Cathedral. The caption read: “NOLA is stunning. Thanks Ethan, for showing me these lights tonight.” I called him. He picked up right away. In the background, Chloe’s flirty voice chimed in, “Ethan, this skewer of shrimp is for you.” My voice went hoarse. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a work trip alone?” He answered lightly. “Oh, Chloe wanted to get out for a bit, so I brought her along. It’s on the way anyway.” “The company’s covering it. It’s just one extra hotel room.” After I hung up, Chloe posted another Story. She and Ethan at the French Market, each holding a Cajun shrimp skewer, both beaming. It wasn’t until the evening of the third day that I finally got a message from Ethan. “Nora, I’m coming back tomorrow. Want anything as a souvenir?” I stared at my screen. Chloe had just posted her eighth New Orleans location tag. The caption read: “Third trip with Ethan. Perfect.” I typed slowly: “No need. Just have fun.” He replied instantly: “You’re so understanding. I’ll take you next time.” I didn’t respond. Because I knew—there wouldn’t be a next time. … That night, when Ethan came home, he brought Chloe through the door with him. I was sitting on the couch, lights off, just sitting there. The door opened, and Chloe’s laughter poured in first. “Nora!” She had her arm hooked through Ethan’s, the other hand hauling two stuffed paper bags. “We brought back so much for you!” Ethan changed his shoes, glanced my way, tone casual: “Chloe’s place is out of the way. She’ll stay in the guest room tonight, just make do.” I looked at him. He’d already hung up his coat and was leaning down to take the paper bags from Chloe, setting them on the table. Chloe unpacked everything one by one—pralines, beignet mix, a bottle of Cajun spice, a limited-edition mini Tabasco. And a tote bag printed with the wrought-iron balconies of the French Quarter. “Come on, Nora, sit over here!” She patted the couch, and once I moved over, she launched into stories about NOLA. “Did you know, the moment they lit up Jackson Square at night, I just froze.” “Ethan was right there next to me. I told him I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life!” “She stood there for a good twenty minutes. I couldn’t pull her away.” Ethan chimed in, a smile at the corner of his mouth. “And then Bourbon Street!” Chloe turned to him. “Ethan, how many oysters did you have that night?” “A dozen.” “Right! A whole dozen! I told him, you can really eat—” The two of them chatted and laughed. I couldn’t get a word in. Not that anyone cared whether I could. I suddenly remembered a week ago, when I’d leaned over the desk and shown Ethan my Valentine’s Day plans on my phone. I’d looked up a couple’s restaurant in advance. He’d pulled me close then, resting his chin on top of my head, and said: “Valentine’s is just us two. Nobody’s gonna get in the way.” Valentine’s was here now. So this was his idea of nobody getting in the way? “Nora?” Chloe called. She switched topics, now telling me about a vintage photo studio in the French Quarter, how Ethan had picked out a cream-colored Southern-belle gown for her, and how passersby had stopped to take pictures when she tried it on. “Ethan said I looked like I’d stepped out of an old movie. Isn’t he too sweet?” Ethan lowered his head and laughed, not denying it. I looked away and stared at the pile of stuff on the table. Their laughter filled the whole living room. I sat at the end of the couch like a decoration someone had put in the wrong place. Ethan must have noticed how quiet I’d gotten. He casually pulled a few items toward me and said: “These are for you. Picked them out just for you. Don’t overthink it, alright? I was just bringing her along for a change of scene. You get it, right?” I looked down at the items. A bottle of Tabasco, a bag of pecan candies, and a box of cookies with a crushed corner. Picked out just for me, he said. Get it. I rolled the phrase around silently, didn’t say it out loud. Then I got up and walked toward the bedroom. Neither of them noticed. They kept laughing in the living room. I closed the bedroom door behind me. The sounds outside didn’t disappear, just got a little quieter. Ethan’s backpack was slung over the back of a chair. I bumped it when I shut the door. The zipper hadn’t been closed properly. A lipstick rolled out and landed on the floor. I bent down to pick it up. Strawberry flavored. Not my shade. I peered inside the bag and saw a Polaroid. Bourbon Street. A whole neon-lit wall as the backdrop. Ethan on the right. Chloe leaning sideways against him. His hand on her shoulder. Both of them laughing. Underneath was a hotel receipt. Yeah. One room. I put everything back, closed the bag, and looked out the window. Out in the living room, Chloe was asking Ethan what building was printed on the tote bag. He was explaining, she was laughing. Their voices sounded close enough to be in the same room with me. I didn’t sleep that night. At three in the morning, I opened my phone and pulled up an email I’d left sitting for two months. It was from my advisor in Paris, inviting me to a three-year research program in France. The last time I’d opened it was one evening when Ethan was propped up in bed watching a show. I’d hesitated for a long time, snuck a glance at him, and finally closed it. Back then, I couldn’t bear to leave him. Now, I opened the reply box: “Professor Laurent, I’m confirming my acceptance of the research position. Please advise on the next steps.”
The next day, I was woken by noise from the kitchen. I opened the bedroom door and saw Chloe standing at the stove, wearing Ethan’s oversized gray loungewear, frying eggs. She pressed down on the yolk with the spatula, tilted her head, and asked Ethan: “You like them sunny-side up, right?” Ethan was leaning against the cabinet next to the stove, looking down at her: “Sunny-side up. Good memory.” “Of course.” Chloe shot him a coy look. “I remember everything about you.” I walked over and sat down at the table. It was already set. Ethan came over carrying two cups, set one in front of Chloe and pushed the other toward me. I glanced down. Iced Americano. No sugar, no milk. But I liked mine sweet. I didn’t drink black coffee. The one who drank unsweetened black coffee was Chloe. At the table, Chloe spoke up. “Nora, I just broke up with someone, and it’s too depressing to be home. Mind if I stay here a few more days?” “You guys have plenty of space. I’ll just tuck into a corner, I won’t be in the way.” Before I could open my mouth, Ethan answered: “Stay as long as you want. You and Nora are best friends. Better here than out at some hotel—I’d feel more at ease.” So Chloe moved in. That night, Ethan said he had a work dinner. He left with Chloe, the two of them laughing on their way downstairs. I stood on the balcony and watched them walk away. The last thing I saw was Ethan reaching up to smooth her wind-blown hair back into place. I turned my phone face-down on the balcony railing and closed my eyes for a moment. Around ten that night, the lock clicked. I was sitting on the couch. Chloe came in first, makeup still on, laughing as she stepped inside: “Nora, you’re still up?” The first thing I noticed was the necklace on her throat. Tiffany. Heart-shaped pendant. Rose gold chain. Catching my gaze, she smiled: “Ethan said this style suits me. You don’t mind, do you?” I didn’t say anything. Late that night, lying in bed, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I nudged Ethan beside me. He put his phone down. “What?” “That necklace,” I said. “It’s the Valentine’s Day limited edition, isn’t it?” He paused. “It’s just the regular one.” “I looked it up,” I said, looking at him. He was silent for a beat, then let out a sigh, set his glass on the nightstand, and gave me that all-too-familiar expression. Not guilt. Impatience. “Nora, just say what you want to say.” “Chloe is living in our home, wearing my clothes, using my things.” I laid it out one line at a time. “She’s rearranged our décor, she’s wearing the limited-edition necklace you gave her for Valentine’s. Do you think this is normal?” “She just went through a breakup.” He frowned. “And isn’t she your best friend? What’s wrong with me looking out for her a bit more?” “Looking out for her?” I repeated. “Is that what this is called? I’m your girlfriend!” “Can you not blow this out of proportion?” He waved his hand, like he was brushing off an annoyance. “Chloe is a friend. I’m just being a little more attentive to her, and you have to make that face. Do you have any idea how ugly you look right now?” “She’s the one who broke up. You’ve got nothing wrong with your life, what are you being so petty about?” Just then, the bedroom door opened. Chloe walked in, looked at the two of us, and pulled on a pained expression: “Is this because of me… Nora, I’ll go stay at a hotel. I don’t want you two to fight over—” “No need,” Ethan said, turning around, his tone instantly softening. “Don’t overthink it. Nora’s just a little tired, she’s always like this. Don’t take it to heart.” Chloe glanced at me. The glance lasted a second, but I saw it clearly. Not apology. Satisfaction. “You’re overreacting,” Ethan said finally. “You’re being so immature.” I didn’t say another word. I got up, went to the study, sat down at the desk, and read through the program materials from Paris again. Out in the living room, Chloe was comforting Ethan: “Nora’s probably just been under a lot of stress lately. Don’t take it to heart.” He said, “I know. Don’t feel bad.” I closed the calendar. Half a month left.
The next day, mutual friends invited us out to dinner. Knowing I wouldn’t see them for three years, I agreed. By the time I got there after work, almost everyone had arrived. I pushed the door of the private room open and immediately saw Ethan and Chloe sitting side by side. Chloe waved me over. I ignored her and grabbed a seat wherever. Before the food even came, Chloe started intercepting Ethan’s drinks. A guy across the table egged him on: “Ethan, come on, one drink.” She took the glass. “Ethan’s not drinking tonight. I’ll cover for him.” She tipped her head back, downed it, and flashed the guy a smile. Ethan leaned toward her and murmured something. She shook her head, then picked up her fork, cut a piece of salmon, trimmed off the edges, and placed it on his plate. Intercepting drinks. Sharing food. Whispering. Every glance was on him. Maya sat next to me, quietly poked my arm, and gestured toward them with her eyes. I said, “It’s fine. Just eat.” It was raining when the gathering ended. I hadn’t brought an umbrella. Before leaving, I mentioned it to Ethan. He was bent over his phone, hailing an Uber for Chloe. Didn’t even look up. “Mm, call one yourself. I’ll wait with Chloe—I wouldn’t feel right leaving her.” The rain wasn’t heavy, but the Uber’s location glitched twice, traffic was terrible, and by the time I got home I was soaked through. Ethan and Chloe still weren’t back. That night, I took my temperature: 102 degrees. I texted Ethan: “I have a fever. Can you grab me a box of Tylenol from the CVS downstairs on your way back?” Half an hour later, he replied: “Chlo’s not doing great emotionally tonight, I’m going to sit by the river with her for a bit. If you’re feeling really bad, just Uber yourself to urgent care. Don’t tough it out.” I stared at those lines for a long time. He was sitting by the Charles River with her, letting the wind blow through her hair. I put my phone down, grabbed my coat, went downstairs, called a car, and took myself to the nearest urgent care. While I was waiting for my number to be called, Chloe posted an Instagram Story. The photo was the Charles River at night, two trendy coffees perched on the railing, Ethan holding one. Only his profile was in the frame. Wind lifted his hair a little. Lights and water in the background. The caption read: “The night wind is so strong. Thanks for being with me.” I turned my phone face-down on my knee. Urgent care had the AC blasting. I wrapped my coat tight, listened to the nurse call numbers, my mind blank. Early the next morning, I opened my laptop. I’d downloaded the school’s academic leave application form two weeks ago and left it sitting in a folder untouched. I filled it out, attached a copy of Professor Laurent’s invitation letter, and sent it to the department. I’d only chosen this program to stay in Boston. Ethan was here. Every plan I had revolved around this one person. Now I was cutting my last reason loose. The department sent back a confirmation. I cc’d my advisor. Then I opened the email thread from Paris and looked over the flight information again. Two weeks. Then Paris. I saved a screenshot of the itinerary, shut the laptop, and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. In the living room, Chloe was on the couch scrolling Instagram. Ethan sat next to her. They were debating where to go for the weekend. I walked past them with my glass, went back into the study, and closed the door behind me. Soon enough, I wouldn’t have to see them anymore.
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