After My Ex Sent Fake Photos to My Boss

The ice came out of nowhere.

One second I was crossing Sixth Avenue with a latte in one hand and my phone in the other, and the next I was airborne. My hip hit first, then my shoulder, and finally my head cracked against the pavement hard enough that I saw white.

Someone grabbed my arm. "You okay?"

I blinked up at a middle-aged woman in a North Face puffer. Her grip was warm through my coat sleeve. And then I heard her voice again—except her lips weren't moving.

*Please don't sue me. I didn't salt this block yet. Please don't sue me.*

"I'm fine," I said automatically. My skull throbbed. "Just slipped."

She helped me up, still holding my elbow, and the voice kept going. *She's bleeding. Oh God, she's bleeding. I'm going to lose my job.*

I touched the back of my head. My fingers came away red.

"You should see a doctor," the woman said aloud. Her face was pale.

"I will." I pulled free and stepped back. The voice stopped.

I stood there on the sidewalk, breathing hard, watching her hurry away. My latte was a brown puddle in the gutter. My phone screen was cracked. And my head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it.

Concussion, I thought. That's all this is.

I went home.

---

Marco was already on my couch when I got back to my apartment in Hell's Kitchen, feet up on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone. He looked up and smiled. "Hey, babe. Rough day?"

"Something like that." I dropped my bag by the door and went to the bathroom to clean the cut on my scalp. It wasn't deep. Just enough to sting.

When I came back out, Marco had moved to the kitchen and was opening a beer. "Want one?"

"Sure."

He handed it to me, and his fingers brushed mine.

*God, this place is depressing. How does she live like this? Meredith's penthouse has a wine fridge. An actual wine fridge. I need to move this along.*

I almost dropped the bottle.

Marco tilted his head. "You okay?"

"Yeah." My voice sounded far away. "Just tired."

He put his arm around my shoulders and guided me to the couch. His palm was warm against my sweater. And the voice in my head—his voice, but not his voice—kept talking.

*She looks like hell. Should I be worried? No. She's fine. She's always fine. I need to text Meredith back. She sent me that photo an hour ago and I haven't responded. The one in the black dress. Jesus.*

I sat very still.

Marco kissed the top of my head. "I love you," he said.

*I need to figure out how to break this off without her making a scene. Maybe after the holidays. Meredith's taking me to Aspen in February. Aspen. Not this dump.*

"I love you too," I heard myself say.

He smiled and reached for the remote. His hand left my shoulder. The voice stopped.

I stared at the TV. Some sitcom. Canned laughter.

My head was pounding. My hands were shaking.

I waited until Marco went to the bathroom, then locked myself in the bedroom and opened my laptop.

Venmo history. Credit card statements. Receipts I'd photographed and filed out of habit. Rent payments. Dinners. Groceries. The Canada Goose jacket I bought him for Christmas because he said his old coat was falling apart.

I opened a spreadsheet.

I started typing.

---

Two days later, I had everything.

Marco came over Thursday night with takeout. Pad Thai. My favorite. He set the bag on the counter and grinned. "Hungry?"

"Sit down," I said.

His smile faltered. "What's wrong?"

I slid the printed spreadsheet across the table. Three pages. Every transaction. Every date. Every dollar.

"Fourteen thousand, six hundred dollars," I said. "That's what you owe me."

Marco stared at the paper. Then at me. "What is this?"

"A bill."

"Bailee—"

"I want it back. All of it. You have two weeks."

He laughed. Actually laughed. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

He reached across the table and took my hand. "Babe, listen—"

*She's lost it. She actually made a spreadsheet. This is insane. How do I talk her down? She's not going to get a cent. I'm not paying for dinners from six months ago. Is she serious?*

"You think I'm insane," I said quietly. "You think you're not going to pay me back. You think this is about dinners from six months ago."

His face went white.

I pulled my hand free. "You also think I'm not going to get a cent. And you're wondering how to talk me down."

He stood up. "How did you—"

"Two weeks," I said. "Cash, Venmo, check. I don't care. But if I don't have it, I'll file in small claims court. And I'll win."

Marco stared at me like I was something he'd never seen before.

I stood, walked to the door, and opened it. "Your stuff is in bags by the closet. Take it. Now."

He left without another word.

I changed the locks that night.

By Friday, I'd signed a lease on a new place. Upper West Side. High-rise. Doorman. Suspiciously cheap for the square footage, but I wasn't going to question it.

I moved in on Saturday.

And on Saturday night, I met my neighbor.