Me (10:05 a.m.): Hi, Emily. That's an interesting version of events. Here is what actually happened: She told me she wanted to get back with her ex, Dylan. She asked me to give her a reason to choose me over him. I declined to participate in the competition. I paid exactly 50% of the bill and left. She is free to be with him now.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Emily was typing, deleting, and retyping. The cognitive dissonance was hitting her hard.
Me (10:07 a.m.): Also, she texted me last night saying Dylan was picking her up and treating her like a queen, so she shouldn't be crying. She got exactly what she wanted.
Emily never replied. I found out later she screenshotted my text and sent it to their group chat asking Vanessa if it was true. Vanessa reportedly had a meltdown claiming I was twisting her words, but the seed of doubt was planted. Her friends knew I wasn't a liar.
For the next three days, I became a ghost. I went to work. I hit the gym. I ate clean.
Vanessa, on the other hand, went on a PR blitz. Since I hadn't blocked her on Instagram yet—I wanted to see the timeline for safety reasons—I saw the show she was putting on. It was pathetic.
Post one (Sunday morning): a photo of two coffees and a bagel tagged at a trendy café. The caption: "Finally with someone who matches my energy. #upgrade #newchapter" A male hand with a distinctive tattoo was visible holding the other cup: Dylan.
Post two (Monday night): a blurry video from inside a club. She was dancing, holding a bottle of vodka with a sparkler in it. Caption: "Living my best life. No more holding back."
She was trying to provoke a reaction. She wanted me to view her stories so she could see my name on the list; she wanted to know I was watching. I didn't give her the satisfaction. I used an anonymous story viewer site to check her page. To her, I had vanished off the face of the earth.
But if you looked closely at the posts, you could see the cracks. In the coffee photo, she wasn't smiling; she was pouting at the camera. The club video was on a Monday night—who goes clubbing on a Monday unless they are desperately trying to prove they are having fun?
And then there was the Dylan factor. I knew Dylan's reputation. He was a love bomber. He would shower a girl with attention for a week, get what he wanted—usually money, sex, or a place to crash—and then get bored. Vanessa had just handed him a victory: she left her stable, boring boyfriend for him. His ego was fed. But ego is a fast-burning fuel.
On Wednesday, five days after the dinner, the silence broke. But it wasn't a text from Vanessa. It was a DM from a guy I knew vaguely, a friend of Dylan's named Mike. We had met at a few parties years ago.
Mike: Yo, man. Weird question. Are you and Vanessa done?
Me: Yeah. Why?
Mike: Okay, cool. Just checking. She's been crashing at Dylan's place since Friday, and it's getting intense. I think she thinks they're dating. Dylan told us she's just a placeholder until his actual girl gets back from her internship in London next week. Just thought you should know before it gets messy.