“Luigi, that idiot, burned his fingers while cooking. I have to take him to the hospital first. You go ahead and eat without me.”
Oh, her lies had always been really terrible.
I couldn’t see her updates on my main Facebook account.
But on my alternate account, a new post appeared in her Story.
The picture showed two people standing in front of a cake.
Colorful confetti floated in the air, frozen in a moment where they smiled and held hands.
“Wallace? Wallace?” Zelda was still on the line.
I let out a long breath.
“It’s fine, no rush.”
I liked her post from my alternate account, and then I dumped the cupcakes into the trash.
Zelda no longer loved me; letting her go should make her happy.
So then I dragged my suitcase and left the house.
On the way, I sorted through years’ worth of confusing photos of Eugene and Zelda.
Then I posted them to my Story.
Plenty of their mutual friends would see those pictures. If I was leaving, well, I wouldn’t let them have it easy either.
Before my flight took off, I sent Zelda a message.
[Happy birthday. Let’s never meet again.]
I didn’t say we were breaking up.
Because in our seven years together, she had never once introduced me as her boyfriend.
Getting cheated on was just what I deserved—blindly clinging to someone who never wanted me.
Right before I turned off my phone, an onslaught of calls came flooding in, and I accidentally answered one.
