Chapter 3

A week of silence followed. A week of me packing his things into boxes, a week of Maya calling three times a day, a week of feeling like a ghost in my own apartment. The silence from him was absolute. No calls. No more texts. It was as if ten years had been erased with a single keystroke.

Then, on a Saturday night, my phone rang. It was one of Liam's old college buddies, Mark.

"Ava? Hey. Uh, is Liam with you?"

"No, Mark. He's not."

"Oh. Crap. Well, we're on Rainey Street, and he's... he's a mess. Way too drunk to drive. We can't get him in an Uber. He keeps saying he wants to go home. To your place."

A familiar, tired sense of responsibility washed over me. "I'll be there."

I found them outside Banger's Sausage House & Beer Garden. Liam was slumped on a bench, his head in his hands, mumbling. Mark and another friend looked relieved to see me.

"Thanks, Ava. We didn't know who else to call."

I drove him home in silence, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and his wordless shame. I half-carried him into the apartment and dumped him on the couch, where he passed out immediately.

His phone had fallen out of his pocket onto the floor. I picked it up. My first instinct was to check it. I tried his old passcode, my birthday. Access denied. He'd changed it.

My mind raced. He was always so lazy with passwords. So arrogant. What would be the most obvious, stupidly simple code he would think I'd never guess?

I typed: 1-2-3-4-5-6.

The phone unlocked.

My heart pounded. I felt sick, but I couldn't stop. I went straight to his Venmo. I scrolled through the recent transactions. Sandwiches, beers, Uber rides... and then I saw it. A payment made two weeks ago, the night Chloe "dropped by."

To: Chloe Richards.

For: "$200 for your acting skills 😉"

The winky face emoji was a punch to the gut. It wasn't paranoia. It was a setup. He had paid her to come over and make me look crazy. The whole thing was a performance, orchestrated to justify his exit.

The rage was so intense it made me dizzy. But I wasn't done. I knew there had to be more. He was too careful to use regular texts. He' d once told me he used Instagram DMs to talk to clients about non-official stuff because it felt "less formal."

I opened Instagram. I found her profile easily. Chloe Richards. A curated feed of beach vacations, expensive brunches, and party photos. I tapped the message icon.

And there it was.

Months of it. Hundreds of messages. Flirty texts, inside jokes, pictures. Plans they'd made. Lies they'd told.

"She's so clingy lately. I don't know how to end it."

"Just be patient, baby. You'll be free soon."

"I can't wait to have you all to myself."

I scrolled and scrolled, each message a fresh slice of betrayal. I felt a strange detachment, like I was watching a movie about someone else's life. This couldn't be my life. Not the one I had poured my entire twenties into.

Then I saw the final message, sent the day after he broke up with me.

It was a screenshot. A confirmation of a name change on an order.

The order for two VIP passes to Austin City Limits. My anniversary gift to him.

He had replaced my name with hers.

Chloe's reply was a string of heart emojis. "OMG! Best boyfriend ever! I can't wait!"

I dropped the phone on the couch. The room was spinning. He didn't just leave me. He didn't just cheat on me. He stole our anniversary, our plans, our memories, and handed them to her like a party favor.

I walked into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I saw a woman with tired eyes and long, safe hair she'd had since college. A woman who had made herself small to fit into a man's life. A victim.

Something inside me snapped.

Not anymore.

I slept on the floor that night, not wanting to be near him. The next morning, I was up before he was. I made a phone call.

"Yes, I'd like to make an appointment for a cut. As soon as possible. Yes, short. Very short."