The Day I Needed Him Most, He Chose Her

The day I discovered that he'd saved Juliana Fox's contact name as "Baby" in his phone, he told me it was just an inside joke between coworkers.

I believed him the first time.

The second time was at our engagement party. Juliana called, slurring that she'd had too much to drink, and he abandoned a room full of guests to go pick her up.

My mother's hands shook with rage. He still had the nerve to tell me, "Don't be childish."

The third time. The fourth.

It wasn't until I slammed the divorce papers down in his face that he looked at me, eyes red, and asked, "Why?"

Why?

Because the day I had my miscarriage, he was out celebrating Juliana's birthday.

Betrayal after betrayal, until there was nothing left inside me to break.

——

I first noticed something was off with Clay Dickerson last autumn.

He was in the shower. His phone lay on the bed, and the screen lit up.

I hadn't meant to look, but a text notification popped up. The contact name read "Juliana."

"Thanks for helping me pick out that gift today. Your girlfriend won't be mad, will she?"

I froze.

Girlfriend?

We'd been together five years. Engaged for three months. She didn't know he was engaged?

I scrolled up. The entire chat history had been wiped clean.

But that single message was enough to keep me up all night.

Clay came out of the bathroom, towel around his shoulders. He saw me staring at his phone, and something flickered across his face. "What are you looking at?"

"Who's Juliana?"

His hand paused mid-stroke, toweling his hair. Then he laughed. "A coworker. New girl in the marketing department. What, jealous?"

He walked over and wrapped his arms around me. He smelled like body wash, clean and warm.

That scent. It suddenly felt unfamiliar.

"She said you helped her pick out a gift."

"Yeah, her boyfriend's birthday is coming up. She asked me to tag along, help her decide. She just moved to Graystone City, doesn't know anyone yet, so I've been looking out for her." He pinched my cheek. "What's going on in that head of yours? Me and her? Seriously?"

I looked into his earnest eyes and swallowed the words then why did you delete the chat history?

Five years. He'd started pursuing me junior year of college. Chased me for a full year before I said yes.

My family hadn't approved. They thought his background was too ordinary. So he threw himself into work, grinding through overtime for three years until he'd saved enough for a down payment on a house.

Everyone said Clay Dickerson was the kind of good man you'd be lucky to find once in a lifetime.

I believed him.

Late October.

It was raining. He came to pick me up from work.

The car was parked outside my office building. He sat in the driver's seat, scrolling through his phone, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

I opened the passenger door. He killed the screen instantly.

Too fast. Deliberately so.

"What were you looking at?"

"Nothing. Just watching some videos." He slid the phone into the cupholder and started the engine. "What do you feel like eating tonight?"

As I buckled my seatbelt, I caught the screen lighting up again out of the corner of my eye. A social media notification. But the car was already pulling away, and I couldn't make it out.

That evening, he cooked dinner with his phone glued to his side. He'd never been like that before. He used to toss his phone on the couch the second he walked in, then stand beside me at the counter chopping vegetables. Now he checked it every few minutes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward each time.

I finished washing the vegetables and walked up behind him.

He flinched.

"What are you doing?" He flipped the phone face-down on the counter.

"Getting the salt."

He stepped aside but kept his eyes locked on me. I scooped out the salt and walked back to the cutting board.

Neither of us said a word through the whole exchange, but something between us had already shifted.

Mid-November. The first time he stood me up.

I had a fever that day and had called in sick. I lay in bed, shivering under the covers.

That morning, before he left, he pressed his palm to my forehead and promised he'd come home early. Said he'd bring me some soup.

I waited all afternoon. Five o'clock turned to six. Six turned to nine.

No soup. Just a text: "Got stuck at work last minute. Go to sleep."