He Bet On Me and Lost

The stench of alcohol in the hallway mingled with the heavy, vibrating bass of metal music.

Clutching the small cardboard box tied with a navy-blue ribbon, I stopped outside the door of the VIP lounge at the very end of the corridor.

It was Zane's eighteenth birthday. Every single year, I had been the first person to wish him a happy birthday. That hadn't changed in ten years.

Just as I reached out to push the door open, his lazy, drawling voice drifted through the crack.

"I lied to her on purpose. I actually chose to go to State."

The lounge fell silent for a split second. Then, a chorus of whistles erupted.

"Are you out of your mind? Chloe is stubborn as hell, and she barely managed to get into an Ivy just to keep your little pact!" The voice belonged to Zane's frat-bro best friend, Mike.

"You guys don't know Chloe." Zane let out a soft chuckle. "She's been an insecure little shadow since we were kids. Without me, she wouldn't even dare step out the door alone."

I froze in place. Peering through the crack in the door, I clearly saw Zane sitting dead center on the leather sofa. He held a beer mug in one hand, while his other arm was draped naturally around the waist of the tall, blonde cheer captain.

"I'll bet my Porsche 718."

Zane pulled out his keys and slammed them onto the glass coffee table with a sharp smack.

"A month into the semester, max, she'll drop her Ivy League offer and come crying, transferring down to State just to find me. Who's taking the bet?"

The room erupted in roaring laughter.

"Damn, Zane, you're ruthless! I got a thousand bucks that says she doesn't even last two weeks!"

"Yeah man, she hits you up every single day—texting, calling. Don't you get annoyed?"

Zane looked down and took a sip of his beer, giving the blonde girl's waist a squeeze.

"Her only redeeming quality is that she's obedient. Too bad she's also incredibly clingy. I needed some entertainment."

I looked down at the cookie box in my hands. Ten years of childhood friendship, the endless morning deliveries of breakfast, trailing behind him like a lost puppy—in the face of this utterly absurd, cruel bet, it had all turned into a pile of garbage.

I pushed the lounge door wide open.

Heads snapped toward me in unison, their eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a good show.

The smirk froze on Zane's face.

The hand resting around the girl's waist flinched sharply, instinctively pulling back. He leaned back against the sofa, tilting his chin up defensively.

"You heard?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

I didn't say a word.

Zane frowned, seemingly unsettled by my lack of reaction. He raised his voice. "Good. Saves me the trouble of pretending. We really do need some room to breathe."

The blonde girl let out a little giggle and deliberately snuggled deeper into his chest.

I ignored the gloating stares. I simply bent down, avoided the disgusting liquor stains on the table, and firmly set that navy-blue cookie box onto the only clean, empty plate right in front of him.

Zane stared at the box, momentarily dazed.

"Chloe, I told you, for a while we shouldn't—"

"Happy birthday, Zane."

My voice wasn't loud. Zane was completely stunned.

His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something.

But I had already turned around.

"Suit yourself!" As I neared the exit, I heard him call out hurriedly behind me. "Just treat this as a vacation for a while!"

I didn't look back.

I heard the harsh thud of Zane grabbing his beer bottle and slamming it against the table.

"What are you all staring at? Just watch! In less than three days, I guarantee she'll be crying and calling me to apologize!"

I walked out of the bar. Pushing the heavy doors open, the freezing night air rushed in, and only then did I realize I was shaking.

The concrete steps outside were uneven, and I missed my footing.

My knees slammed into the hard cement, scraping a massive patch of skin right off.

I sat there helplessly, twisting my head to look back through the bar's glass doors.

Zane hadn't even run out after me.

Through the gaps in the crowd, I stared at the door to that VIP lounge, guessing he had already reached out to wrap his arm around that girl again.

I lowered my head, staring at the blood seeping out of my knee. A memory abruptly flashed in my mind—last autumn, I had tripped on the track while running, and my knee had been scraped up exactly like this.

Zane had crouched down, pulling a tissue from his pocket to wipe off the blood.

Back then, he had said, "Be careful. I can't stay right by your side forever."

I thought he meant he physically couldn't always be there because we were heading off to college.

It turned out, he meant... he didn't want to.

I forced myself up. My knees burned, but I could still walk.

I made my way home, step by step, without looking back.

When I pushed open the front door, my parents were already asleep. I sat on my bed in the suffocating darkness, unlocked my phone, and opened my text thread with Zane.

The last message from him had been sent three days ago: Okay.

I had simply replied: Got it.

Scrolling up, there was a message where I asked, Are you free this Saturday? He hadn't replied.

Further up was a text he sent last Christmas: Merry Christmas, Chloe. Miss you.

Looking at that message now, it felt like it belonged to another century.

My finger hovered over the Delete Contact button. I stayed like that for a long, long time.

In the end, I didn't delete him.

I simply selected his message history, one by one.

The system prompt popped up on the screen: Delete all chat history?

I tapped Yes.

Then I tossed the phone next to my pillow and closed my eyes. In the darkness, the raw wound on my knee throbbed, pulsing with a sharp, relentless ache.