After My Boyfriend Used Me to Fund His Wedding

The first text came two days after I left.

Not *where are you?* Not *are you okay?* Just: "Mom's PT is at 3, don't be late."

I was sitting on the floor of my studio back room when my phone lit up. Boxes of makeup kits surrounded me, half-unpacked. I'd been staring at the wall for twenty minutes, trying to remember where I'd put the ring lights.

I read the message twice. Then I opened my photos, took a screenshot, and saved it to a new album I titled "Evidence."

I didn't reply.

The next text came four hours later. "Did you pick up Mom's prescriptions? She's almost out."

Screenshot.

Then another the following morning. "Where did you put the insurance cards?"

Screenshot.

By the third day, there were eleven messages. Reminders about Margaret's meal schedule. Questions about which physical therapist she preferred. A single "you okay?" buried between a request for the pharmacy phone number and a complaint that he couldn't find the spare house key.

I saved every one.

On the fourth day, I stopped reading them as they arrived. I'd check once in the evening, scroll through whatever had accumulated, screenshot the lot, and set my phone face-down on the counter. The notifications piled up like snow against a door I wasn't planning to open.

He never asked where I was.

He never said my name.

At night, I sat at the desk in my studio and opened my laptop. The screen's glow turned the room blue. Outside, Brooklyn hummed—sirens, distant voices, the rattle of the J train two blocks over. I pulled up my banking app and started downloading statements.

Five years of them.

I made a spreadsheet. Three columns: Date. Description. Amount.

The first entry was from March 2019. *Venmo to Greyson Wheeler: $850. Rent (his half).* I remembered that month. He'd just started the new job, the one that was supposed to change everything, and his first paycheck was delayed. "Just this once," he'd said. "I'll get you back."

He never did.

I kept scrolling. April: $340 for groceries. June: $1,200 for Margaret's physical therapy co-pay, the one insurance wouldn't cover. August: $180 for his car registration because he'd forgotten and the late fees were stacking up.

September 2019: $3,200. *Greyson's certification exam prep course.*

I stared at that one for a long time. I'd paid it in two installments because my credit card couldn't handle the full amount at once. He'd kissed me when the payment went through, called me his "good luck charm," said this certification was going to open every door.

He passed the exam. Got the promotion six months later. Never mentioned paying me back.

I added it to the spreadsheet.

The list grew. Rent, groceries, co-pays, prescriptions, the electric bill that one winter when his account was overdrawn. The $90 I'd spent on his mother's birthday cake because he'd been too busy to order one. The $450 for new tires on his car after he'd blown through a pothole and didn't have savings to cover it.

Every receipt I'd saved. Every Venmo transfer. Every credit card statement with his name in the description line.

By 2 AM, I had it all.

$23,247.

I leaned back in my chair and looked at the number in the bottom cell. It sat there, clean and irrefutable, glowing against the dark.

Twenty-three thousand, two hundred and forty-seven dollars.

Five years of my life, converted into a sum a bank could understand.

I saved the file. Backed it up to three separate drives. Then I closed the laptop and sat in the silence.

My phone buzzed. Another text from Greyson. "Can you call Mom? She's asking for you."

I picked up the phone, took a screenshot, and set it back down.

Then I did something I hadn't let myself do since the night I found the invitation.

I let myself remember the baby.

It was two years ago. October. I'd been tired for weeks, nauseous in the mornings, crying at commercials. When the test came back positive, I'd sat on the bathroom floor holding the stick, staring at the two pink lines, and felt something I hadn't expected.

Hope.

I told Greyson that night. He was on the couch, watching a game, beer in hand. I sat beside him and said the words out loud. "I'm pregnant."

He didn't look at me. Just kept his eyes on the screen. "We can't afford it."

"We could figure it out," I said. My voice was small. "People do."

"Grace." He finally turned, and his face was flat. Annoyed. "I'm not doing this right now. We'll handle it later."

Later never came.

Three weeks after that, I woke at 2 AM with cramps that felt like my body was tearing in half. I texted him from the bathroom floor. *Something's wrong.*

He didn't respond until morning. *You okay?*

By then, it was over.

I never told him I'd lost it. He never asked.

Now, sitting alone in my studio with the spreadsheet saved and the screenshots filed, I let myself cry. Just once. I set a timer on my phone for one hour, and I let everything I'd been holding collapse.

When the alarm went off, I washed my face in the studio sink. Dried it with a paper towel. Looked at myself in the mirror.

My eyes were red. My face was blotchy.

But I was still here.

I went back to the desk, opened my laptop, and started drafting an email.

The subject line read: *Bridal Makeup Inquiry.*

I didn't know if Juliet Lawson would respond.

But I knew exactly what I'd say if she did.