Chapter 1My Girlfriend Became His Wife

Samantha and I were together for five years.

She was never the type to care about grand gestures or milestone rituals, which is why I didn't think twice when she told me she had too much on her plate for Valentine’s Day. I just shrugged, figured we’d catch up later, and called up a couple of friends for beers and greasy barbecue.

As it turned out, her "urgent plans" meant standing in front of a city clerk, swearing an oath, and walking out with a marriage certificate.

When I saw the photo pop up on her feed, my breath hitched for half a second. But there was no mistaking it—it came straight from Samantha's own account. On Valentine’s Day, while I was drinking draft beer out of a frosted mug, my girlfriend became someone else’s wife.

Fortunately, I’m not the kind of man who stars in a tragic indie drama.

She was just a girlfriend. A title, an arrangement, something you walk away from. You don't need a judge or paperwork to end a breakup. You just walk away.

* * *

It was Valentine’s Day, and the city streets were crawling with couples clutching long-stemmed red roses, wrapping their coats around each other against the chill. My phone, on the other hand, had been stone-cold silent since sunrise.

Across from me at our wobbly table in a smoky, open-air taproom, Mack tore into a skewer of grilled lamb, washed it down with a long pull of IPA, and squinted through the haze at me.

"Hey, Pat. What gives? How’d you get a hall pass to sit out here in the freeze with two bachelors on Valentine’s?" Mack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sam didn’t want a fancy dinner?"

Samantha and I had been a package deal since our senior year of college. Five straight years. In the eyes of everyone who knew us, we were practically an old married couple, hovering right on the threshold of an inevitable ring.

I shrugged, cracking open another cold bottle with an easy pop. "I asked her this morning. She said she had bigger fires to put out today."

The words had barely left my mouth when Simon, sitting across from us, choked on his drink and stared down at his glowing screen.

"Holy shit."

Mack jumped, nearly fumbling his skewer onto the gravel. "What's your problem? Did somebody die?"

Simon’s face went through three different shades of pale before he slowly lifted his head, shooting me a look of pure dread. Without a word, he slid his phone across the grease-stained wood, stopping right between our baskets.

"Just... look."

Mack and I leaned in.

It was an Instagram post, stamped two minutes ago, directly from Samantha’s private account. The photograph showed two hands holding a freshly stamped, embossed county marriage certificate on the polished steps of the downtown municipal courthouse.

I reached into my jacket, pulled out my own phone, opened the app, and dragged down to refresh.

Nothing. Just an endless scroll of generic holiday promotions.

She had hidden it from my view. Custom audience.

Simon tapped his screen to check the link again, but the post blinked out of existence. "It’s gone," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, his ears turning red with embarrassment. "She must’ve accidentally shared it with the wrong list. Probably deleted it the second she noticed, or changed the privacy settings."

The noise of the street suddenly dropped out of focus. The sizzle of the grill, the clink of glasses around us, the laughter from nearby tables—it all collapsed into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Mack stared at the dark screen, then looked up, nervously cataloging every muscle in my face. "Pat... you want to call her? Ask what the hell this is?"

"Ask what?"

I tossed a peanut into my mouth, chewed slowly, and took a slow sip of beer.

"There's nothing to ask," I said. My voice was level, almost casual, as if we were discussing a slight delay in a flight schedule. "We were just dating. She’s a free woman; she can do whatever she wants with her life. Besides, she’s somebody else’s wife now."

Simon leaned in, his brows knit tight. "Man, don't do this. Don't put on the tough-guy routine for us. If you’re losing your mind, just say so."

"I’m really not," I told him, offering a genuine, tired smile before draining my glass. "I don't even have to guess who’s on the other side of that camera."

Brett.

The kid from her hometown, one year behind us in school. Ever since he landed in Seattle a year ago, clutching his fresh degree and looking lost, Samantha’s world had been revolving entirely around his orbit.

"Honestly, guys, I’m done," I said, meeting their worried eyes with complete clarity. "If anything, I’m relieved. I’m just glad it wasn't my name signed next to hers today. Imagine waking up legally bound to someone like that, waiting for the rot to set in later. Let’s drink. Cheers."

Mack and Simon traded an uncertain look.

They had seen us at our best. They remembered our final year of college, how we used to finish each other’s sentences, the suffocating sweetness of those early days when we couldn't go an hour without touching. They had every reason to think I was bleeding internally.

Yet as they looked into my eyes, searching for a twitch, a crack, or an unshed tear, they found only calm, dead water.

I wasn't acting. The rope had simply snapped.

"Come on," Mack said quietly, lifting his glass. "To getting out alive."