Page 14 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

The flickering bedside lamp.

The fact that I’m in Chicago, alone, in a motel that charges by the night and looks like it has opinions about tetanus.

Or the fact that Bryce Biggs, coward, liar, human embodiment of an overpriced blazer with nothing underneath, didn’t just dump me at the airport. He apparently lied about literally every single practical detail attached to our move.

Even the address.

A building he sent me like proof that this was real. River North. Something with a short-term lease while we “figured things out.”

I even looked it up. Googled the street. Imagined myself there.

When I checked yesterday, standing on the sidewalk with two suitcases and a rapidly dissolving sense of self, the building existed.

The apartment didn't.

I drag my arm off my face and look at the water-stained ceiling again.

I should've asked way more questions. Why did I trust Bryce so damn much? Idiot. It's clear the airport panic was nothing. He knew none of this was happening. None of it ever was. Why the hell did he wait until that moment to end things? Why did he lie to me for so long? Why not just dump me before I quit my job or gave notice on my apartment?

“Honestly,” I mutter to no one. “At this point, if it caves in, I might take that as a sign.”

The ceiling, unhelpfully, remains intact.

My phone buzzes beside me.

For one delusional half-second, my traitor brain thinks maybe it's Bryce. Ready to explain that the whole Chicago situation is a misunderstanding. That there is an apartment. That he somehow has a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this.

It’s not Bryce.

It’s a bank notification reminding me that my account balance is lower than I’d like.

I sit up too fast, and the room tilts. Probably because dinner last night was a gas station granola bar and a Coke, which, according to every wellness influencer on earth, isn't a complete meal.

I grab the little plastic-wrapped motel cup and pour myself some water from the sink, which tastes vaguely of metal and suds.

This isn’t how my life was supposed to look on a Thursday morning.

I was supposed to be in some cute little apartment with exposed brick or whatever lie Bryce sold me. I was supposed to be unpacking my clothes, maybe rolling my eyes at his inability to organize kitchen cabinets, maybe texting Luci that yes, I’d officially arrived in Chicago and no, I hadn’t yet murdered my boyfriend over his obsession with decorative throw pillows.

Instead, I’m in Motel Sadness.

And somewhere out there, Bryce is probably being insufferable in public with his new girlfriend, acting like he didn’t torch my life with the emotional equivalent of a flamethrower.

I grab my phone before I can talk myself out of it and open social media.

This is a mistake, I know it is.

It doesn’t take long.

There he is.

Bryce, in a photo someone tagged him in at some rooftop bar, looking tanned and smug and tragically pleased with himself, one arm wrapped around a woman whose face I don’t even know… but I know what she is.

The “someone more stable.”

She’s pretty in that polished way that makes me want to throw things. Dark hair, white teeth, a tight dress. One manicured hand on his chest like she’s proud of the prize she’s won.

Congratulations, babe. Enjoy your haunted mannequin.