1: 1

My best friend got married, so I gave fifty thousand in gift money.

My boyfriend, Thomas Gilbert, snorted. "How much do you even make in a month? Who are you trying to impress?"

I told him she was a friend I'd known since I was little. He clicked his tongue and said nothing more. That same night, he swapped the fifty-thousand red envelope for five dollars.

The next day my best friend called me. "Meg Cox, did you make a mistake? Why is there only five dollars in here?"

I gripped the phone and listened to Thomas explain from the living room, careless as anything.

"Money doesn't stand for friendship. The gesture's what counts."

A week later, his childhood sweetheart Ella Whitney got engaged.

Drones spelled out "A Hundred Years of Happiness" against the sky and rained roses down over everything, and below it all sat a five-million-dollar necklace and a lavish banquet he'd booked out entirely.

Thomas stood beside me, gazing up at the spectacle, his voice gentle.

"It's nothing. All of it together's barely ten million."

"When your buddy gets engaged, you do it right."

As the shimmer poured down out of the sky, he and Ella held each other's eyes across the crowd, long and unhurried, as if no one else existed.

And just like that, I saw through the last little lie I'd been telling myself.

......

The drones fanned out "Ella, may you be happy" across the sky, the line blazing sharp against the night wind.

Someone beside me sucked in a breath.

"Five million! When Mr. Gilbert does something, he really does it..."

"Ella's got some standing, all right. I heard he flew in a team from overseas just for these drones..."

I kept my head tipped back until my neck ached, and my eyes stung and swelled too.

The thing looping over and over in my head was my best friend's tear-choked question and Thomas not even bothering to lift his eyes.

Five dollars, and now ten million.

Back then he hadn't looked up either, fastening a cufflink as he said it.

"Money doesn't stand for friendship. Why do you have to use it to prove something?"

And now here he stood, using a display worth tens of millions to prove to everyone just how much someone else meant to him.

"Meg?"

A soft, sweet voice came from the side.

I turned. Ella had come over at some point, earrings, necklace, and bracelet all in place, the light catching them until my eyes stung.

"Pretty, aren't they?" She tilted her head a little.

"Thomas flew all the way to Belgium to have them made for me. He said for an engagement you have to have three sets of gold, or it doesn't look like it means anything."

I knew that brand.

Even the cheapest set in the magazines ran to seven figures.

And the gift he'd given me for my twenty-fifth birthday.

A thin platinum chain, a little over two thousand, not even a brand card tucked in the box.

I heard myself let out a small laugh. "Then he really put some thought into it."

One of the buddies, half in the bag, sidled over grinning.

"Thomas, look at the setup you gave Ella. Full three sets of gold, the whole drone show booked out. You're a good friend, man."

Then he turned to me, tongue thick with drink.

"Hey, you're Thomas's girl—when are you gonna bring up marriage with him? He'd be even more generous with you, for sure!"

Every gaze swung onto me at once.

Thomas didn't answer. He just held his glass and looked at me with something not quite a smile.

That look held the familiar sizing-up.

He was probably waiting for me to show hurt, jealousy, or any of the emotions he'd already predicted.

He waited a long while. I only smiled, calm. "We'll see."

The truth was, I'd been waiting for Thomas all along.

Sophomore year, that autumn, he kissed me outside the dorm building and promised he'd marry me the first autumn after graduation.

That in a wedding dress I wouldn't be cold, and I wouldn't be hot either.

But afterward he broke that promise, one year after another.

Thomas's brow creased, so faint you'd almost miss it, and his gaze slid off my face and settled on Ella and her full three sets of gold.

"My own wedding will naturally be the grandest of them all. That fiancé of yours, though—"

"Can't even come up with three sets of gold. What kind of nobody are you even marrying?"

Ella stared at him, the end of her words lifting lightly.

"Thomas, my guy's so broke he can't even scrape together the bride price, and here you are—you spent a whole month fussing over this engagement party of mine. Drones, the necklace, the yacht, three sets of gold flown back from Belgium..."

"People who know say it's brotherly loyalty. People who don't would think the one getting engaged today is you."

"If you really can't stand to let me go—"

"Why don't you try stealing me away right here today?"

The buddies burst out laughing. "Ella, don't go egging Thomas on. He'd actually do it!"

"Right, right, once Thomas gets going there's nothing he won't—"

Everyone was waiting for Thomas to answer, to see whether he'd smile and concede or toss back some flirty little joke.

Not one of them remembered that I was Thomas's girlfriend, standing right there beside him.

I set down my glass.

Then I turned and walked through the roomful of laughter and glittering light, toward the doors of the banquet hall.

If their world had no room for me, then I'd just step out of it.

2: 2

Thomas caught up with me right as I reached the parking lot entrance.

He clamped a hand around my wrist, hard, and when I pulled, I couldn't get free.

"Meg! What's your problem?"

His voice was low, edged with irritation.

"It's Ella's engagement party, and you walk out with a face like that in front of everyone. Where does that leave her?"

I looked up at him.

The neon lights spilled from behind him onto that face I'd looked at for eight years, brows knotted tight now, lips pressed thin.

"Thomas, in all these years, what's the most expensive thing you've ever given me?"

He froze for a second.

"That necklace. Twenty-three hundred. You grabbed it at the mall on my birthday, and you said jewelry only needs to get the point across, no need to go expensive."

"But Ella's chain, you flew all the way to Europe for it. Her bracelet, her ring, her earrings, what does all of that add up to?"

My voice stayed even. "And tonight, the drones, the yacht, that five-million necklace of yours. Thomas, explain something to me. What exactly counts as 'getting the point across'?"

His frown pulled tighter. "Why are you comparing yourself to Ella? She's my buddy—"

"Buddy," I laughed once. "You give your buddy a five-million drone show, and you have me hand over a five-dollar gift."

His face changed.

"Meg, don't stand here making a scene. I already explained the thing with your friend to you—"

"Explained what?" I cut him off.

"Every word you explained was just making excuses for yourself."

He was quiet for a few seconds, his face sinking little by little.

Finally he pulled a bank card out of his trouser pocket and flung it at me.

The edge of the card grazed my cheekbone, a sharp, numbing sting.

"You said the money was too little, didn't you?" His voice went cold.

"Take this card, make it up to your friend, buy whatever else you want. Is that enough? If not, I've got more."

I looked down at the card lying on the ground and found it almost funny.

He still thought this was about money.

Eight years, and he had never once truly understood what hurt me.

My phone rang right then.

Thomas glanced at the screen, his brow easing a little, and answered.

"Ella? I'm coming back now... you all keep drinking... don't worry about her..."

He hung up, already two steps into turning away, then paused and looked back over his shoulder.

"Calm yourself down. Stop making trouble out here."

His footsteps faded.

I crouched down and picked up the card.

Turned it over.

On the back, four words written in marker: "For Ella's use only."

So it turned out that even the thing I had to fight to reach already had her name on it.

I closed my hand around the card, nails digging into my palm, a faint ache.

Then I threw it into the trash can beside me.

3: 3

When I got home, my phone buzzed.

Ella had sent a screenshot. I opened it.

The timestamp was from the day of my friend's wedding.

"Hahaha, I'm dying. Fifty thousand down to five bucks. Thomas, you are cold."

"A bet's a bet."

"You're not afraid she'll find out?"

"If she does, she does. Worst case I make it up to her. But... don't let her know it was your idea. No point in her blaming you."

I stared at that line for a long time. My lips twitched, wanting to smile. Nothing came.

So the five dollars had been because of her.

So he had "worried I'd blame her," and rather than that, he'd just skipped the explanation entirely.

He would rather I think him cold and heartless than let her carry a shred of it.

I tapped into her feed on impulse.

The newest post, a nine-photo grid.

The center one was a close-up of her clinking glasses with Thomas, captioned: "Fake engagement party, actors hired, a bet on whether a certain someone would dare object. He didn't. But once he found out it was fake he drank himself stupid, no idea what he was so happy about."

Someone had commented: "Ella, you played it this big? Not scared the act turns real?"

She'd replied with a tongue-out emoji:

"I just wanted to see whether he'd actually come stop the wedding. Verdict? Not bad. A passing grade."

I set the phone face-down on the couch.

I got up and headed for the bedroom to pack.

When I pulled open the nightstand drawer, a sheet of paper sat on top. An ultrasound report.

I'd planned to tell him tomorrow, on our eighth anniversary.

I'd booked the restaurant, bought a cake, tucked this report inside the gift box,

waiting to see his face when he opened it.

Would he smile? Would he freeze? Would he hold me?

Now I held that paper, its edges already folded and smoothed flat again and again.

This child. Was he worth giving Thomas one more chance?

Late that night, Thomas came home smelling of liquor.

He stumbled through the bedroom door, saw me sitting on the edge of the bed, came over and half-knelt in front of me, forehead pressed to my knee.

"Meg," he slurred, "I'm sorry... I shouldn't have snapped at you today."

His hand covered the back of mine, palm burning hot.

"Don't be angry, okay? Tomorrow's our anniversary. I'll take you to that restaurant you've always wanted. We'll do it right."

I looked down at the slightly messy top of his head.

Then I slid the ultrasound report out of its envelope and held it out to him.

"Thomas, I'm pregnant."

He raised his head, his unfocused gaze settling on the paper, staring at it for a few seconds.

Then his expression changed. He reached out and took it, and with a rip,

he tore the paper down the middle, the pieces falling onto the sheets between us.

"Get rid of it," he said.

I looked at the scraps in the trash can, and for a second everything blurred.

"Say that again."

"I said get rid of it."

He raised a hand and pressed his brow, his voice turning irritable. "Meg, what are you trying to do, showing me this? Force me to marry you? Using a life to blackmail me?"

"Blackmail you? This baby's been coming for almost a month. I never said a word, I just wanted to surprise you on our anniversary—"

"Surprise?" He gave a short laugh and turned his face away.

"You call this a surprise? Meg, wake up. Stop being so desperate to get married, would you?"

In the second my eyes went red, I suddenly remembered him gripping my hand on the field in our sophomore year, saying, "Meg, let's get married the day we graduate. I'm scared you'll run off."

Now, out of the same mouth, only eight years apart, it had become "desperate to get married."

He must have realized he'd gone too far. His tone eased, and he reached out to pull me into his arms.

"Tomorrow's our anniversary. I'll spend it with you properly. I already had my assistant book the restaurant, the flowers are ordered too. I'll think about the baby. We'll talk about getting married, slowly. All right?"

I let him hold me.

His chin rested on the top of my head, his breathing slowing, the smell of liquor washing over me, and a few minutes later he went still.

He was asleep.

I eased out of his arms.

I stood, picked up the torn scraps from the bed one by one, and cradled them in my palm.

Then I opened the suitcase and started packing my clothes.

He and I had no tomorrow, and no so-called marriage after.