I felt Sarah's hand give mine a subtle, reassuring squeeze. I smiled, calm and polite. "Chloe, this is my girlfriend, Sarah. Sarah, this is Chloe, an old friend."
The word "girlfriend" hit her like a physical blow. She actually flinched.
"Girlfriend?" she stammered, the fake brightness cracking. "That was fast." She tried to reclaim territory, turning to Sarah with a saccharine smile. "I'm his best friend. We've known each other for, like, 5 years."
I didn't let Sarah have to field that one. I looked at her, my expression warm and genuine, and said, "My best friend is right here."
I turned my gaze back to Chloe, my politeness a perfect, impenetrable shield. "It was good seeing you, Chloe. We were just leaving."
I stood up, helping Sarah with her jacket. I didn't look at Chloe again. I guided Sarah toward the door, my hand on the small of her back—a universe of intimacy and possession in that simple gesture. I heard a choked, sputtered noise behind us, but I didn't turn back. The foundation of her world had just crumbled, and I felt nothing but the gentle pressure of Sarah's shoulder against mine.
The dam broke after that. The texts started again, now from a revolving door of new numbers. Each message was a new stage in the cycle of grief.
Unknown, nostalgia: "Leo, it's Chloe. Remember that time we got lost in the rain coming back from the coast? And we sang terrible '80s songs until we found the highway. I miss talking to you. We need to catch up. Just as friends."
I deleted it. I was with Sarah, helping her assemble a new bookshelf. We were building something together.
Unknown, self-pity: "He was a mistake. Jake... you were right about everything. I was stupid and blind. I see that now. You were the only one who ever really knew me. I'm so lost."
I showed it to Sarah. She shook her head, a mix of pity and disgust. "She doesn't miss you," Sarah said, her insight razor-sharp. "She misses the service you provided." She was right. It was the most profound truth of the entire situation.
Then came the anger.