“Move,” my girlfriend said quietly, one hand already on the passenger door. “You’re not sitting next to my boyfriend.”
Chapter 3
The test came two weeks later.
My company held its annual client reception at a downtown Cleveland hotel. It was a formal event—suits, cocktail dresses, speeches, expensive wine, and executives pretending not to check their phones every four minutes.
I asked Molly to come.
She studied me before answering.
“Jenna will be there.”
“I know.”
“You sure you want that?”
“I’m sure I want you there.”
That earned me a small smile.
Molly wore a dark green dress that made several men at the reception forget what they were saying mid-sentence. I introduced her to everyone as my girlfriend, not casually, not as an afterthought, but proudly.
“This is Molly.”
“My girlfriend, Molly.”
“Have you met Molly?”
It probably seemed excessive.
I did not care.
For the first hour, everything went well.
Then Jenna arrived.
The moment she saw me, she crossed the room and threw both arms around my shoulders.
“Eric! Where have you been hiding?”
I stiffened.
Her hands stayed on me.
Before, I would never have noticed.
Now I noticed everything.
I stepped backward until her arms fell away.
“Busy with work.”
“Too busy for lunch?”
“Some days.”
She tilted her head. “You never answer my messages anymore.”
Molly was standing six inches from me.
I glanced at her.
She was watching quietly.
Jenna followed my gaze.
“Oh,” she said.
That one syllable contained more hostility than a full sentence.
We moved toward another group.
Jenna followed.
I spoke with a department manager.
Jenna interrupted.
Molly asked one of my coworkers about his daughter’s college graduation.
Jenna physically stepped between them to ask me whether I remembered a party we had attended five years earlier.
It was astonishing.
Not because her behavior was new.
Because I was finally seeing it.
For years, I had apparently walked through these moments half-asleep.
Eventually Jenna caught my elbow.
“Can I talk to you alone?”
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“What?”
“Whatever you need to say, you can say here.”
She glanced at Molly.
Then she laughed bitterly.
“This is because of her, isn’t it?”
Molly went still.
“Jenna,” I warned.
“She’s cutting you off from your friends.”
Several people nearby heard her.
I felt my old instinct rise—the instinct to smooth things over, change the subject, avoid confrontation.
Then Jenna said it.
“Ever since you started dating this bitch, you’ve acted like somebody put you on a leash.”
Molly looked at me.
Not at Jenna.
At me.
This was the moment.
My moment.
And for one horrible second, I froze.
Molly suddenly laughed.
Loudly.
Far louder than the comment deserved.
People turned toward us.
One coworker asked, “What happened?”
Molly smiled pleasantly at Jenna.
“Oh, Jenna said something hilarious. Ask her to repeat it.”
Jenna’s face flushed.
Molly slipped her arm through mine and guided us toward another group with effortless grace.
The crisis was over.
Except I felt sick.
Because Molly had rescued me again.
Later that night, after we returned to my apartment, she removed her earrings in front of the bathroom mirror.
“You froze.”
“I know.”
She looked at me through the mirror.
“I’m trying.”
“I know that too.”
“I should have said something.”
“Yes.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“I hate confrontation.”
Molly turned toward me. “So do most people.”
“You don’t.”
“Oh, yes, I do. I just hate being walked on more.”
That stayed with me.
The next morning, I went to human resources.
I documented the amusement park incident, Jenna’s messages, and what she had called Molly at the company reception. Our HR department was not particularly impressive, but I wanted a record.
Then I asked my manager to move my lunch schedule.
Finally, I wrote down four sentences on a yellow legal pad.
I felt ridiculous.
I practiced them anyway.
“Jenna, our relationship needs to remain professional.”
“No more personal favors.”
“No more comments about Molly.”
“Do not call me your work husband again.”
I practiced in my car.
I practiced while shaving.
I practiced until the sentences came out without my voice shaking.
Three days later, Jenna walked into my office and shut the door.
“We need to talk.”
I felt my pulse jump.
“Leave the door open.”
She stared at me.
“What?”
“Please leave it open.”
She opened it again.
Then she crossed her arms.
“Happy?”
“No.”
Her expression hardened. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing happened.”
“You’ve avoided me for weeks.”
“I’ve changed some boundaries.”
She laughed. “Boundaries? Did Molly teach you that word?”
There was the opening.
I looked at the yellow paper beside my keyboard.
Then I looked directly at Jenna.
“Our relationship needs to remain professional.”
Her face changed.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“After nine years?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been there for you forever.”
I almost smiled at the irony.
“No, Jenna. I’ve been there for you.”
She blinked.
I continued before fear stopped me.
“I’ve watched your dog, driven you home, picked you up in the middle of the night, bought your meals, listened to your fights, helped you move, covered for you at work, and defended you when people complained about you.”
“You offered.”
“Sometimes.”
Her arms dropped.
“You’re throwing our friendship away because your girlfriend is insecure.”
“No.”
“That’s exactly what this is.”
“No more comments about Molly.”
Jenna laughed sharply. “Unbelievable.”
“And don’t call me your work husband again.”
Her mouth opened.
For once, no sound came out.
I had imagined feeling powerful.
Instead, I felt sad.
Nine years is a long time. Even when a friendship is unhealthy, ending part of it feels like losing history.
Jenna shook her head. “You’ve changed.”
“I needed to.”
She left.
For almost a minute, I sat there staring at the doorway.
Then Kevin appeared.
He leaned against the frame.
“Did you actually do it?”
“You were listening?”
“Half the department was listening.”
I groaned.
Kevin grinned. “About time.”
