My Boyfriend Chose Her. So Did My Two Best Friends. Chapter 02

My Boyfriend Chose Her. So Did My Two Best Friends. Chapter 02

“One economy seat, the two o’clock.”

The agent at the counter glanced at my license.

“Ms. Marsh, no checked bags?”

“No.”

One carry-on, one backpack. That was everything I was taking with me out of that relationship.

Through security, I found a corner of the gate area to sit in.

My phone was already on Do Not Disturb—only starred contacts could get through.

Weston wasn’t starred. Neither were Graham or Desmond.

They had been, once.

I’d cleaned out my contacts a month ago and quietly un-starred them.

That night I’d asked Weston if he wanted to get dinner over the weekend.

He said he was helping Harlow move dorms.

I said I could help too.

He said, “We’ve got enough people, you don’t need to come.”

I set the phone down, looked at his name still sitting in my favorites list, and suddenly it struck me as almost funny.

What was the point of starring someone who never reached out first?

The gate announcements looped overhead. The AC was cranked too cold.

I pulled my jacket tighter around me.

Packing before the trip, I’d realized I didn’t own a single piece of Weston’s clothing.

Two years together, and he’d never once put a jacket over my shoulders.

But Harlow had been around three months, and his windbreaker, his hoodie, his zip-up—they all rotated onto her like clockwork.

Graham said Harlow ran cold, got sick easily.

Desmond said she couldn’t handle the cold, needed looking after.

Weston never even said anything. He just stripped off his jacket and handed it over.

And me?

Sophomore winter, heavy snow, the four of us went out for fondue.

I’d worn only a thin sweater and shivered the whole walk there.

Graham glanced at me. “Why didn’t you dress warmer?”

Desmond laughed. “Cassidy doesn’t feel the cold, everyone knows that.”

Weston walked ahead with his hands in his pockets and never turned around.

I caught up and tugged his sleeve. “Can I borrow your jacket for a sec?”

He frowned. “Whose fault is it you didn’t bring one?”

Graham smoothed it over. “Okay, okay, let’s just get inside, there’s a line.”

I ended up sitting by the door that whole dinner.

Every time someone came in, the cold air blasted straight into my back.

Nobody offered to switch seats with me.

After that, I learned. Always bring an extra layer when you go out.

Not because I felt the cold more than anyone else.

Because nobody was ever going to block the wind for me.

My phone lit up—a text from an unknown number.

[Cassidy, it’s Harlow. Graham gave me your number. Are you upset about this morning? I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean it.]

[I told them to wake you, but Weston said you sleep really deeply and didn’t want to disturb you. Please don’t be mad at them, okay?]

Weston said I slept deeply.

He knew I was a light sleeper.

Two years together—he’d roll over in bed and I’d wake up.

He didn’t think I slept deeply. He just didn’t want to wake me.

When Harlow was around, I was extra.

Don’t wake me, and the group evens out at four—better photos, livelier conversation, no need to babysit the one who’s always a beat behind.

I didn’t answer Harlow’s text.

Ten minutes later, a message from Graham.

[Cassidy, Harlow already apologized, why are you still making a thing of it? She’s the youngest of us, she’s sensitive.]

[If you’re still upset about this morning, we’ll take you out for a nice dinner when we’re back, okay?]

Take me out for a nice dinner.

Just like every other time they’d forgotten me and tried to make up for it.

Forgot to save me a seat—dinner.

Forgot to invite me to something—dinner.

Forgot my birthday—

That time, there hadn’t even been dinner.

Junior year, my birthday. I’d announced it in the group chat a week in advance.

Graham said he’d remember. Desmond said, “Relax, we won’t forget.” Weston sent a cake emoji.

The day of, I booked a restaurant—a table for five.

When I got there, I found out Harlow had also made plans with them that same day. She’d gotten shortlisted for a photography contest and wanted to celebrate.

Graham asked me, “You don’t mind celebrating with Harlow too, right?”

I said I didn’t mind.

The entire dinner was about Harlow’s photos.

Weston helped her edit them, Graham helped her pick which ones to submit, Desmond kept raising his glass to her.

Nobody mentioned my birthday. Not a single word.

Halfway through, I went to the bathroom.

Coming back, I overheard Harlow saying, “Today was so nice, thank you guys for coming out specially to celebrate with me.”

Specially.

That was my restaurant. My table. My date, planned a week ahead.

But in everyone’s eyes, it was Harlow’s celebration dinner.

I sat back down, smiled, raised my glass.

“Here’s to Harlow.”

Weston looked at me—just once—and clinked his glass against mine.

That was the only time he looked at me all night.

The next day, Graham posted the dinner photos.

A nine-photo grid, Harlow in every single one.

Caption: [Congrats to our little photographer.]

Desmond commented: [Had to make the cut!!

Weston liked it.

Nobody remembered that it had actually been my birthday.

The gate announcement crackled overhead.

“Passengers on the two o’clock flight, boarding will begin shortly.”

I stood, shouldered my bag.

My phone lit up one last time. A message from Desmond.

[Cassidy, where the hell are you? Weston’s losing it, are you ignoring your phone on purpose? Don’t be so dramatic, everyone’s just looking out for you.]

Looking out for me?

I’d heard that phrase for four years.

They called my giving in “being easy to get along with.” They called my silence “having a good temper.” They called it “throwing a tantrum” whenever I disappeared.

It had never once occurred to any of them that a person might actually be hurt enough to not want to come back.

The line at the gate was short. I stood at the very end of it.

My boarding pass scanned, I walked down the jet bridge.

The dull thud of the cabin door closing sounded like a period at the end of a sentence.

My phone was still lit. One more message from Weston.

[Cassidy Marsh, if you don’t answer soon I’m actually going to be pissed.]

I looked at that sentence and, out of nowhere, laughed.

He was angry.

Not worried about me. Angry that I wasn’t listening.

The plane began to taxi, the runway sliding past the window.

I turned off my phone.