The drive home was punctuated by the insistent buzz of Antonio’s phone messages from Mandy.
She was checking on him and ensuring his safe arrival. I unlocked his phone, intending a polite reply, but a chat with one of his friends stopped me cold. “I told Mandy I’m getting married, and if she doesn’t show, I’m done with her.”
The phone went dark. My breath hitched.
The proposal, three days ago, made sickening sense now.
No ring, no shared home, just a whispered, “Don’t tell our families.”
I’d assumed it was guilt over not giving me the wedding I deserved.
The eight–year dream had been a cruel ploy to lure Mandy back.
Hope died.
I closed my eyes, repeating the mantra: leave.
Three days until the wedding.
David called, “Finish your tasks before you go.”
“Got it.” I ended the call.
Antonio, irritated, demanded, “Where are you going?”
“Work,” I said, forcing a smile.
He didn’t press, settling onto the couch with snacks.
Then, confused, he asked, “Why did you give me honey water?”
I stammered, inventing a reason, “For your stomach.”
His face hardened. “Don’t pretend you care.”
I managed a weak smile. “You’re right. It won’t happen again.”
The next day was for wedding photos.
Antonio acted as if nothing was amiss, distant and detached.
I’d seen his tenderness for Mandy, a tenderness never offered to me.
Before leaving after breakfast, I checked my phone.
Antonio’s message was unexpected: “Let’s take the photos at the university. Our professors and friends should share our joy.”
A hollow chuckle escaped me.
He thought he had the upper hand.
He wanted to see Mandy, who’d posted that morning about being back at our alma mater.
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