“He’s been cheating on you for six months,” Matt, my boyfriend’s best friend, says.
I don’t even know how to react. My hands tremble. I’m surrounded by his friends, and he’s supposed to be meeting me here. But he’s with her.
I live over 200 miles away from him when I’m at college. He is four years older than me and has a full-time job. We mostly see each other on weekends.
I search through the purse he bought me to find the phone he pays for. I dial his number, but get no response. He forwards me to his voicemail, and I have nothing to say.
“How could this happen for so long?” I ask Matt.
“We figured you knew. It’s been a while, and he wasn’t exactly discreet about it. We just figured you stayed for the money.”
“Screw you! I could care less about his money. I can’t believe you would think that.”
The vacations were nice, so were the shopping trips, but I never imagined people thought of me that way. I want to scream it in the middle of this shithole of a bar so all of his asshole friends could hear it loud and clear.
Instead, I walk outside. I pace around parked cars, contemplating my next move.
I head for the gas station across the street and march toward the ATM. We share a bank account, and I know all of his passwords.
I punch his code in. 5946. The machine asks how much I’d like to withdraw. A dozen numbers run through my head. I decide $2,000 sounds good.
I walk back into the bar and feel everyone’s eyes on me. I’m in a rage and they all know it. I throw a $100 bill on the beer-soaked counter.
“Shots on me.”
They continue to stare.
I remove the stack of bills from my purse and throw it in the air, smiling as they slowly float to the ground.
Mouths drop.
“I don’t need his money. So screw all of you.”
I walk away and see his friend’s dash to the floor, fighting over the cash. Guess his friends cared more about the money than I did.