After I Found Out He Slept with His Best Friend’s Girl

The clink of silver against fine china echoed in the bright dining room. I sat across from Mrs. Martin at a corner table of an upscale brunch spot. Spencer sat next to me, nursing a mimosa. I reached into my leather tote and pulled out a small, heavy gift bag. I set it gently next to Mrs. Martin's water glass.

"Just a little something," I said softly.

Mrs. Martin looked at me. Her eyes held that familiar, cool skepticism. She was a woman who guarded her approval like gold. She pulled the dark tissue paper back. Her breath hitched. She lifted the iconic green jar of La Mer face cream out of the bag.

"Ayla," she said. Her voice lost its usual sharp edge. "This is incredibly generous. But how did you..."

"You mentioned it at dinner six months ago," I smiled warmly. "You said the winter air was hard on your skin. I remembered."

I didn't tell her I had a hidden note on my phone specifically for her offhand comments. I didn't tell her I bought it with the bonus I earned from working late while her son was in a downtown hotel with Valery.

I leaned forward. I asked about her garden. I remembered the exact type of blue hydrangeas she planted in the spring. I asked about the historical fiction novel her book club was currently reading. I fed her the exact version of myself she wanted to see. I was attentive. I was polished. I was perfect.

By the time the waiter cleared our plates, Mrs. Martin was touching my hand. She looked at me like I was a prize she had won.

That night, Spencer stood in our kitchen. He looked incredibly smug. "My mom called me on the drive home," he said. He wrapped his arms around my waist. "She told me you're exactly the kind of woman a man should hold onto."

I kept my back to him as I washed a plate. My knuckles turned white against the wet sponge. "That’s so sweet of her," I said smoothly.

On Tuesday afternoon, the office was quiet. I was deep into a pitch deck. The elevator doors chimed. Heavy footsteps echoed on the carpet.

I looked up. Jett Hicks was walking down the center aisle.

He was drenched. His dark hair was wet and pushed back. His gray t-shirt clung tightly to his chest. He was breathing hard, like he had just run a marathon. He held a brown paper takeout bag in one hand.

Every head in the open-plan office turned.

He stopped at my desk. He flashed a brilliant, breathless grin. "Delivery," he announced. His voice was loud enough for the whole floor to hear. "You mentioned last week you skip lunch on pitch days. Couldn't let that happen."

I stared at him. "Jett? What are you doing here?"

"I biked across Brooklyn," he panted. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Took a Citi Bike. Traffic was a nightmare."

Maya sat two desks over. Her pen literally dropped from her hand. It hit her desk with a loud clatter. She stared at Jett’s clinging shirt. Then she stared at me with wide eyes.

I felt a flush of heat rise in my neck. I stood up and took the bag. "Thank you," I muttered. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to," he said easily.

I walked him back to the elevator. He smelled like rain and expensive cologne. The doors slid open. He stepped inside and gave me a lazy wink before the metal doors closed.

I turned around. Maya was already standing at her desk. She mouthed, *Who is that?*

I just shook my head and walked back to my chair.

That evening, I sat on my sofa and thought about Jett. I pictured him standing by my desk. Then, I realized something. His shirt was perfectly damp. The wetness was an even, flawless spread across his chest. There were no salt rings. His face wasn't flushed red from exertion. He wasn't actually out of breath.

The lobby bathroom was directly next to the elevator bank.

I laughed out loud in the empty apartment. He didn't bike across Brooklyn. He took the subway, walked into my building, and splashed water all over himself in the lobby sink. He engineered an entire theatrical performance just to make me swoon. Just to show everyone in my office that I was taken care of.

It was ridiculous. It was manipulative. And my chest ached with how much I loved it. I didn't text him that I knew. I kept his secret.

The next morning, I stepped into the elevator to head down for a client meeting. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was an Instagram notification.

*Jett Hicks added to their Close Friends story.*

I tapped the bubble. A green ring circled his profile picture.

The first slide was a blurry photo of the street outside my office building. The text overlay read: *loyal golden retriever bf updates.*

I blinked. I tapped to the next slide. It was a poll.

*Question: Does she know I'm obsessed with her?*

*Option 1: Yes obviously.*

*Option 2: She suspects nothing.*

I bit my lip to stop a smile. I tapped to the third slide. It was a screenshot of a comment section. He had created fake accounts. The handles were absurd.

@ayla_deserves_everything commented: *Bro you are doing great. Don't give up.*

@jett_is_down_bad replied: *She is literally a goddess. Buy her more food.*

I read the comments twice. The sheer amount of effort it took to set up fake email addresses, make fake accounts, and leave unhinged comments on his own post was staggering. It was incredibly juvenile.

The elevator doors opened to the lobby. I stepped out into the busy Manhattan street. The cold wind hit my face. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I laughed. It was a real, loud laugh.

I stood on the sidewalk and took a screenshot of every single slide. My phone made a soft clicking sound with each one.

Spencer had given me five years of smooth lies and empty promises. He never put effort into anything unless it benefited him. But Jett? Jett was building an entire ridiculous world just to make me smile on a Wednesday morning.

I saved the screenshots to a new folder on my phone. I didn't name this one 'Project S'. I just locked my screen, put my phone in my pocket, and walked to my meeting with my head held high.