To scrape together the down payment for the house I thought Brooks and I would share, I became a postpartum doula. I spent my days in the shadows of the wealthy, massaging the aches out of new mothers who lived in houses I could only dream of. My last appointment today was in the gated hills of the North Side, where the mansions overlooked the city like silent, stone deities. The woman who opened the door was draped in a silk slip dress that cost more than my monthly rent. "Make sure you work out the tension in my hips," she said, stretching out on the oversized bed. She lowered her voice, a playful, sharp glint in her eyes. "My man is coming home tonight to collect his dues, if you know what I mean." She let out a soft, throaty laugh. "Actually, he’s not exactly my husband. He’s my benefactor. Since I gave him a son, he handed me the keys to this villa." I forced a professional smile, my hands slick with lavender oil. "He sounds very devoted to you." She smirked, leaning her cheek against the silk pillowcase. "Oh, he’s obsessed. He hasn't touched that drab woman he lives with in six months. He says she spends all day doing what you do—helping other women with their 'maternal leaks.' Apparently, he can’t stand the smell of milk and baby powder on her. It makes him sick." I froze. My fingers went numb against her skin. For the past six months, every time I tried to initiate anything, Brooks would pull away. He’d say he was too tired, that the long hours of "driving for Uber" were draining the life out of him. She paused, twisting her head to look at me. "Hey, I’m not talking about you, obviously. You’re just the help." I swallowed hard, forcing my heart to stay in my chest. It’s a coincidence, I told myself. It has to be. She turned her attention back to her phone, scrolling mindlessly. "He’s still lying to his girlfriend, telling her he’s out delivering food just to find an excuse to come here. He’s coming over again tonight. My back is going to be ruined." The words had barely left her mouth when my phone buzzed in my pocket. “Summer, babe, the delivery bonuses are doubled tonight because of the snow. I won’t be home. Get some sleep, don’t wait up for me.” ... 1 I felt the blood drain from my extremities, inch by agonizing inch. A high-pitched ringing started in my ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the villa’s climate control. It couldn't be him. Not my Brooks. Not the man who used to bike thirty minutes across the city just to bring me those warm apple fritters from the bakery I loved. Not the man who braved the biting wind and sleet to earn enough for our "future." We had been together for seven years. Seven years of building a life out of scraps and promises. I kept my head down, my hands moving rhythmically, but my palms were sweating, slicking the oil until I could barely grip her skin. It’s just a coincidence, I chanted internally. There are thousands of delivery drivers in this city. It isn’t him. Callie—that was the name on the intake form—didn’t notice my internal collapse. She was too enamored with her own reflection. "His devotion is honestly unparalleled," she continued. "Last month, I mentioned I wanted to go skiing. He rented out an entire private slope just for the two of us. And for our anniversary? He set off a firework display over the harbor that had the whole city stopped in their tracks." I felt a sudden, sharp burst of relief. A knot in my chest loosened. I remembered those fireworks. I had seen them through the smeared window of a city bus while I was heading to a night shift. I watched the gold and violet blooms against the black sky, listening to the other passengers speculate about which billionaire was trying to win back a bored socialite. Brooks couldn't even afford a bouquet of roses without saving for a week. Sometimes, after a long shift, he’d just bring me a single coffee, tucked inside his jacket to keep it warm. He’d arrive with his ears glowing beet-red from the cold, smelling of the winter air. I felt a wave of guilt wash over me. How could I doubt him? His love was quiet, humble, and real. My suspicion felt like a betrayal. "You’re very lucky," I managed to say, my voice steady. Callie hummed in agreement, purring as I worked a knot out of her shoulder. "He’s completely hooked. The idiot even told me he 'lost' his ID so he could wait and get the new one issued on my birthday. That way, the date on the back of his license will always be my birthday. Romantic, right?" My heart didn't just drop; it shattered. My fingertips went cold. Brooks had told me yesterday that he’d lost his wallet. He said we had to cancel our anniversary trip to the mountains because he couldn't check into the hotel without his ID. He told me he’d go to the DMV tomorrow to get it sorted, and then he’d make it up to me. I heard my voice, sounding like it belonged to a ghost. "When is your birthday?" She answered without looking up. "Tomorrow. Why?" My hand slipped, and the glass bottle of essential oil shattered against the marble floor. Callie bolted upright, glaring at me. "Watch it! What is wrong with you?" "I'm so sorry," I whispered, dropping to my knees to pick up the shards. "My hands... they just got slippery. I’ll clean it up." She huffed, settling back down but keeping her eyes on her phone. "Whatever. He’s such a mess, honestly. He says he’s bored to death of his girlfriend, but he still insists on marrying her." I felt the sting of a glass splinter in my thumb, but I didn't pull away. I stared at the oil spreading across the floor. "Why?" Callie shrugged, twirling a lock of her hair. "Who knows? He says something about 'responsibility.' Whatever that means. It doesn't matter to me. My son and I are taken care of, and this life is a hell of a lot better than my days as a low-rent cam girl." The air in the room turned acidic. Responsibility. That’s all I was to him. A debt to be paid, a ghost to be fed. When the session was over, Callie wrapped herself in a plush robe. "Not bad. I’ll book you again." I forced a polite nod, packed my kit, and fled. The snow was still falling outside, heavy and silent. I rubbed my aching wrists as I walked toward the bus stop, the cold air biting at my lungs. By the time I reached our cramped apartment, it was nearly midnight. The smell of damp drywall and old cooking oil hit me the moment I opened the door. From the unit next door, the muffled sounds of a couple arguing drifted through the thin walls. I needed to hear his voice. I needed him to lie to me one more time. The phone rang three times before he picked up. "Summer? Is everything okay?" In the background, I heard a low, throaty growl—the sound of a high-performance engine idling. It wasn't the rattle of his beat-up moped. I gripped the phone tighter. "Where are you?" "Out on a delivery, babe," Brooks said, his voice smooth and warm. "The tips are crazy tonight. Why? You sound tired." I watched the snow pile up on the windowsill of our tiny kitchen. "Can you stay with me tomorrow? Just for the day?" 2 There was a pause on the other end, a silence that felt like a canyon between us. "I can't, Summer. I have to get that ID replaced, remember? If I don't do it tomorrow, the weekend rush will be a nightmare." "Can't it wait until the day after? Tomorrow is our seventh anniversary, Brooks. Even if we don't go away, can't we just... have dinner? Together?" "We'll see..." I heard the chime of a GPS in his background. "If I finish early at the DMV, I’ll come straight home. Look, I have to go. This order is about to be late, and I need every cent I can get if I’m going to buy that house for you. I’m working for us, Summer. By next spring, we’ll have the down payment." He hung up. The screen faded to black. Outside, the broken streetlamp flickered, casting a sickly yellow light over the frozen street. Brooks and I met ten years ago. Back then, I was Summer Winthrop, the daughter of the Winthrop Group’s CEO. I was a girl who didn't know the price of a gallon of milk. I met him during a charity trip my father took me on. We were in a rural town, looking at a school project. I stepped into a drafty wooden shack and saw him. He was wearing tattered clothes, his face smudged with soot from a wood stove, but his eyes... they were like a clear night sky. I begged my father to sponsor his education. We went to high school together, then college. He was brilliant and worked twice as hard as anyone else. When I was scared of the thunder, he’d stay on the phone with me until dawn. He’d save his meager work-study money just to buy me a single champagne rose. He used to hold my face in his hands and tell me I was his "springtime." He promised he would build a world worthy of me. Then the floor fell out from under us. My senior year, my father’s company collapsed. Overnight, we went from the social register to the obituary section. My parents... they couldn't handle the shame. They drove off a mountain road. I knelt at their funeral until my legs gave out. Brooks was the one who caught me. He was there every day, pulling me out of the wreckage. I believed that a love that survived that kind of fire was eternal. When Brooks said he wanted to start his own firm, I gave him the last of my parents' savings. I gave him every contact, every lead, every ounce of the Winthrop name I had left. Six months later, he came home with bloodshot eyes and told me the business had failed. I held him. I told him it didn't matter. We would start over. Since then, he’d worked himself to the bone—or so I thought. Construction sites by day, deliveries by night. I thought I was the luckiest woman alive to have a man who would sacrifice everything for me. My eyes grew heavy, but just as sleep began to pull at me, a cold sweat broke across my skin. I sat up, my heart hammering. The bed beside me was still empty. I grabbed my phone and began scrolling mindlessly through social media, a nervous tic I couldn't shake. Suddenly, a "Live" notification from a local account popped up in my feed. I glanced at it, and my thumb froze. 3 The screen flickered to life, and my breath hitched. The handle was CallieV_XOXO. It was her. The woman from the villa. She was lounging against her headboard, her silk robe slipping dangerously low. You could see the faint, dark marks on her neck—fresh, unmistakable. Comments flooded the sidebar. “Why aren't you dancing lately, Queen?” Callie smirked at the camera. "I don't need to dance anymore. I’ve got a permanent sponsor. I’m just here to chat tonight." She tilted her head toward the bathroom door in the background. It was frosted glass, but through the steam, I could see the silhouette of a tall man. Callie lowered her voice, a predatory grin on her lips. "He’s in the shower. We just went through a whole box of protection... he’s exhausted me." The comments went wild with envy. Someone asked, “Aren’t you cold dressed like that in the winter?” She laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. "Cold? Please. The heated floors in this place are on twenty-four-seven. I’m practically sweating in this silk." She paused, as if remembering a funny joke. "His girlfriend, though? She’s probably shivering in some tenement because she’s too cheap to turn the heat on." I pulled my thin duvet tighter around my shoulders, a tremor passing through me. The electric bill in this apartment was so high we only turned the heat on when it dropped below freezing. Another comment flashed: “He has a girlfriend? So you’re the side piece?” Callie waved a manicured hand dismissively. "Please. She’s a ghost. A 'responsibility.' In this day and age, the one who isn't loved is the real intruder." Suddenly, the bathroom door opened. A man stepped out, his back to the camera. Callie fumbled with the phone, turning it face down, and the screen went black. But in that split second, I saw him. I gripped the edges of my phone so hard my knuckles turned white. My body began to shake, a violent, rhythmic tremor I couldn't stop. I knew that silhouette. I knew the curve of those shoulders, the way he tilted his head. I had prepared myself for the possibility, but seeing it was a physical blow to the gut. The screen was dark, but the audio was still rolling. "Who are you talking to?" His voice was deep, slightly rasped from the steam. "Just my fans, babe," Callie purred. "What were you telling them?" "Just how much you’ve been bullying me tonight..." Then came the sound of fabric rustling. The wet, rhythmic sound of kissing. The low moans. I sat in the dark, tears streaming silently down my face. The camera turned back on minutes later. Callie’s face was flushed, her lips swollen. I couldn't watch anymore. A wave of nausea hit me, and I scrambled to the bathroom, retching into the toilet. Nothing came up but bile. My throat burned. I looked at myself in the cracked mirror. My face was haggard, the exhaustion of the last few years etched into the fine lines around my eyes. This relationship was like the walls of this apartment—rotting from the inside out while I tried to slap a fresh coat of paint over the mold. I thought we were building something. I thought we were "the one." I picked up my phone with numb fingers and booked a one-way ticket to San Francisco. 4 I don't know how long I cried. Eventually, I must have collapsed on the sofa. When I woke up, there was a blanket draped over me. I felt arms lifting me up. "Why are you sleeping out here, Summer?" Brooks’s voice was a whisper of concern. "You’ll catch a cold." I forced my eyes open. His face was so familiar—the same gentle eyes, the same focused gaze that used to make me feel like the only girl in the world. He laid me on the bed and pulled a white paper bag from his pocket. "The bakery was still open when I finished my deliveries. I got your favorites. Warm apple fritters." As he handed them to me, I didn't smell sugar or cinnamon. I smelled her. That expensive, cloying perfume from the villa. I felt the nausea return. I couldn't speak. Brooks frowned, brushing a stray hair from my forehead. "What’s wrong, babe? Your eyes are so swollen. Have you been crying?" I opened my mouth, my voice sounding like gravel. "Brooks... this life is so hard on you. I worry about you so much. What if I started doing deliveries with you? We could spend the time together." He stiffened. The smile on his face faltered for a fraction of a second before smoothing back into a mask. "Don't be silly. I wouldn't dream of letting you suffer like that." "I don't mind the hardship." "But I do." He kissed the top of my head. "Eat your fritters before they get cold. I have to head to the DMV to get that ID." He turned toward the door. "Brooks," I called out, the word catching in my throat. "It’s our seventh anniversary. Please. Just today. Stay." He stood with his back to me. Outside, the snow had stopped, leaving the world gray and muffled. "Okay," he said lightly. "I’ll try to finish up early. I’ll take you to that steakhouse you love tonight. I’ll meet you there at seven." The steakhouse overlooked the river. The water was black as ink, reflecting the city lights. I sat at a window table, watching the waiter refill my water for the third time. "Ma'am, would you like to order an appetizer?" "Just a few more minutes," I said calmly. By nine o'clock, the restaurant was emptying. The pianist was packing away his sheet music. Brooks hadn't arrived. No call. No text. I opened the app again. Callie had posted a new story ten minutes ago. It was a photo of two champagne flutes against the backdrop of the city skyline. “Who cares about an anniversary? It’s my birthday that matters.” The last spark of hope in my chest went out. I stood up and walked out into the night. Small, sharp flakes of snow began to fall again. I walked along the riverfront, the cold biting through my coat. I remembered a night seven years ago. We were running through the snow, laughing like children. Brooks was chasing me with an umbrella, trying to keep me dry. I had turned around and crashed into him. We stood so close our noses touched, and his face turned bright red. If we walk in the snow together, we’ll grow old together, I had whispered. The snow was still falling, but the boy from that memory was dead. I went back to the apartment, packed a single suitcase with my clothes, and left. I didn't take anything he had bought me. In the Uber to the airport, I refreshed Callie’s page one last time. A new photo had been posted three minutes ago. It was a close-up of a man’s face against a pillow. It was Brooks. The caption read: “The best birthday ever.” My phone finally buzzed. A text from Brooks. “I’m so sorry, Summer. A huge delivery order came in and I couldn't pass up the bonus. Can I make it up to you tomorrow?” I stared at the words. Then I looked at the photo of the mouth I had kissed a thousand times, curled into a sated smile. I wiped the heat from my eyes, sent a single reply, and turned off the phone. The plane pierced through the clouds, into the endless blue of the stratosphere. I looked down at the city one last time until it was just a smudge of light, a memory of a life I no longer owned. Goodbye, Brooks. May you get exactly what you deserve.
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