He Chose Her, So I Chose His Rival

My foot hit something under the passenger seat of Preston’s car. I fished it out: a pair of cream Chanel ballet flats.

“Yours?” I held them up.

“Vanessa’s.” Preston kept his eyes on the road, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Her heels gave her blisters, so she keeps a pair of flats in here just in case.”

Vanessa is my best friend.

I stared at the shoes and suddenly thought of last winter.

I’d worn heels on a business trip, and the backs of my feet were bleeding by the end of it.

I’d asked him if I could keep a pair of soft shoes in his car.

He’d said, “Sera, my car isn’t your mobile walk-in closet. Stop shoving your junk in here.”

So the car could hold shoes after all. Just not mine.

————

I didn’t have time to fight. Tonight was the product launch I’d spent eleven months preparing for.

We were two blocks from the venue when Vanessa called, sobbing that her stomach hurt.

Preston slammed on the brakes and pulled over. “Get an Uber the rest of the way.”

I took a deep breath. “Preston, if you leave right now, we’re done.”

He looked at me like I’d told a joke. “Don’t be like that, Sera. I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

I grabbed my umbrella, shoved the door open, and stepped out into the New York downpour.

The second the door shut, the Bentley swung around and vanished into the rain.

Standing there in the cold, I took out my phone and opened an email a headhunter had sent me six months earlier:

Sera, the Global Partner position in spatial design is still yours if you want it.

I wrote back, perfectly calm:

I accept.

Preston had always assumed that as long as he came back and said a few sweet words, I’d be right where he left me, waiting like a good girl.

He’d forgotten I wasn’t a pet.

Ten minutes later, I was backstage at the venue, toweling my hair dry and changing into a black couture suit.

A staffer ran over with a place card, looking awkward. “Sera, is Mr. Preston still coming? His seat front row center is still empty.”

I looked at my flawless makeup in the mirror and said evenly, “Take it away. It’s an eyesore.”

My phone lit up. An iMessage from Vanessa:

Sera, I’m so sorry. I was such a wreck today and Preston insisted on staying with me. You’re not mad, are you?

Then another one right after:

He even said today was really important to you, but he just couldn’t leave me like this.

I could see the fragile-victim act between every line. I locked my phone.

The launch was a massive success.

Our livestream numbers came in triple what we’d projected.

My team was cheering. Someone even popped champagne.

In the past, the first thing I’d have done was call Preston to share the news.

Tonight, I didn’t think to check my phone until the whole thing was over.

At nine, the celebration dinner wrapped up. Preston never showed.

I took an Uber home by myself.

The moment I walked in, I saw a takeout container on the dining table.

A sticky note was pressed under it: Vanessa couldn’t finish this. Brought it home for you.

I lifted the lid. Half a cold burrito, loaded with onions.

I’ve hated onions since I was a kid. Vanessa loves them.

Back when the three of us ate together, she always teased me for being picky about it. Preston knew.

He’d still brought home her leftovers and set them in front of me without a second thought.

I snapped the lid shut and dumped it in a trash bag, along with the row of sugar-free kombucha she always drank from the fridge.

I was still cleaning out the fridge when the front door opened.

Preston was home earlier than I’d expected, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, like he’d hurried the whole way.

He saw the trash bag in my hand and paused. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning out the fridge. Stuff was about to expire.”

He kicked off his shoes and followed me in, loosening his tie. “I saw the launch numbers. Nice work.”

Once, those were the words I’d wanted to hear more than anything. Now they sounded like a boss praising an employee who’d done a decent job.

I bent my head and knotted the trash bag.

“You’re mad,” Preston said.

“No.”

“If you’re not mad, why haven’t you looked at me once since I got home?”

I finally looked up. “What do you want to hear? Me asking if Vanessa’s stomach is better? Or me asking why you stood me up again?”