He Faked a Lottery to Choose Her—Until I Changed the Game Chapter 03

Grant said nothing.

His jaw tightened. He was done with this conversation.

“Why are you making this so hard?”

“Cece is like a sister to me. You know that. Why does it have to be one or the other?”

I didn’t flinch.

I held his gaze.

“Choose, Grant.”

“Her or me.”

Right on cue, his phone buzzed.

He glanced down. I saw the name flash on the screen.

Cece.

Not Celia. Cece. His name for her.

There was a time when that nickname made me jealous. The way her contact sat pinned at the top of his phone, above mine, above everyone’s.

He told me it had been that way before we started dating.

Just habit, he said.

He looked away from me. When I saw his face again, his expression had softened.

The voice message blared on speaker before he could stop it.

[Grant, what time are you getting here?]

He glanced at me.

He held down the mic button. “Almost there,” he said. “Heading to the airport now.”

He pocketed his phone and looked at me.

“Same as always, okay? I’ll fly out to see Cece first, then I’ll catch a late flight back and we’ll do something for yours. And next year, I promise I’ll be here.”

He was already done talking about this. I could see it in the way he’d shifted his weight toward the door.

A few pretty words to keep me quiet until he was gone.

He said the same thing every year.

Not once had he kept it.

“So it’s Celia.” I didn’t make it a question.

Grant grabbed his suitcase handle. “We’ll figure this out when I’m back. I’m not choosing between you two. That’s not fair to either of you.”

He wasn’t torn.

He’d made his choice a long time ago.

I’d known what he’d do. Knowing didn’t make it hurt less.

My silence made him nervous enough to try again.

“Next year. I swear, Laurel. Next year I’ll be here.”

The door clicked shut. I stood in the entryway, listening to his footsteps fade.

Grant was gone.

The house went quiet.

Three hours later, he texted. [Landed safe.]

I didn’t reply.

I don’t know how long I stayed in the entryway before I finally went upstairs.

At midnight, a few friends texted me happy birthday.

I replied to every one.

That’s when I saw it. Grant had just posted.

Two photos. One of Celia pulling a goofy face at the camera. The other, a screenshot of two Venmo transactions.

The numbers jumped off the screen.

$1,430 and $3,650.

The caption read: [Happy birthday, Miss Voss]

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I liked it.

His message came almost instantly.

[It was Cece’s idea, she thought it’d be fun. Don’t read into it.]

I almost laughed.

How was I supposed to not read into it?

Five years of posts just like this one.

Transfers every year. Always those numbers. 143 for “I love you.” 365 for “every day of the year.”

I asked him once if he’d post for my birthday too. He made that face, the uncomfortable one, and said he would. Next time.

There was never a next time.

Celia got the public celebration. The post, the photos, the money with meaning behind the numbers.

All I ever got was next time.

I didn’t text him back.

I turned off the screen and set my phone facedown on the nightstand.

I closed my eyes.