Ditching Her When the Storm Comes In

During a typhoon alert, Joyce Lane calls me and tells me to pick her up from her company.

On the way there, I receive a text from her. "You don't have to pick me up anymore. I'm going to stay over at Fin's place for a few days."

I opt not to start anything with her. Instead, I calmly text back, "Okay."

In the middle of the night, Finley Jones, Joyce's junior at work, uploads a social media post that's meant for my eyes only.

Joyce can be seen huddling against Finley while feeding him some snacks in the photo. The window outside depicts a storm.

The caption writes, "It's only befitting for me to tide out the worst weather with the woman I love the most."

I leave a like on the photo calmly. Suddenly, Joyce calls me and demands what that like means.

I reply coolly, "It means we're breaking up."

On the third day after the typhoon passed, Joyce Lane finally contacted me.

The text read, "Come pick me up at Fin's place. He's busy—can't drive me back."

In the past, whenever she called, I would drop everything and go.

This time, I replied while waiting for my oatmeal to finish cooking. "Just take a cab."

Half an hour later, Joyce dragged her suitcase through the door, her face dark with irritation. "I just got home, and you're already eating?"

I paused, spoon halfway to my mouth, and looked up at her, confused.

With an impatient huff, Joyce shrugged off her coat. "Stop eating and wash the clothes in my suitcase first. The power at Fin's house got knocked out by the typhoon yesterday. I didn't even get to shower."

With that, she walked toward the bathroom.

"I'm busy. Just toss them in the washing machine," I said evenly.

Joyce stopped in her tracks. She frowned, glaring at me with clear displeasure. "Harry, are you done sulking yet? The typhoon was dangerous. You were taking forever to get there, so I stayed at Fin's. What's the matter? Does my safety mean nothing to you? Or are you seriously that jealous?"

I swallowed the last spoonful of oatmeal, carried the bowl to the kitchen, and chose not to argue.

But Joyce kept staring at me. After a moment, as if she'd figured something out, she started scolding me again. "You're still hung up over that post on my Instagram feed, aren't you? I already told you—it was just a joke.

"The second he saw you'd liked it, he panicked and deleted it. He even asked me to explain it to you. You're a grown man. Why are you being so petty with a youngster like him?"

I almost laughed. Finley Jones was 28—only a year younger than me. Somehow, in her eyes, he was a youngster, and I was a grown man.

The conversation was going nowhere. I cleaned up the dishes and said calmly, "I really don't have time to wash your clothes. I'm heading out."

Joyce looked surprised. Normally, I would've argued back by now.

Instead, I stayed perfectly calm.

Her expression shifted again and again. Just as I stepped out of the living room, she suddenly walked up and kissed me.

"There. Happy now?"

Joyce shot me a proud, almost smug look, as if my emotions were entirely under her control.

I instinctively pushed her away. A wave of nausea hit me.

Even when Joyce was in the wrong, Joyce had never stooped to this—never tried to coax me with a kiss.

Yet here she was, doing it for Finley's sake.

Judging by the looks of it, whatever could've happened between them in those three days probably did.

I casually wiped my face and headed to the door to change my shoes.

Joyce stared at me in disbelief. "Harry, what's that supposed to mean? Are you disgusted with me?"

"No," I replied. "Just a bit of a germaphobe."

Joyce was just about to lose her temper when my phone rang. My rideshare had arrived downstairs.

Seeing me about to leave, she suddenly grabbed my arm. Her expression turned strangely flustered. "What's gotten into you today? Where are you going?"

"Work."

Joyce heaved a sigh of relief and said with a cold expression, "Cancel the ride. I'll drive you."

Her car was a gift from me, yet she rarely ever let me ride in it.

This sudden display of consideration was unprecedented. I was about to refuse, but she had already grabbed the keys from the entryway and walked ahead.

Typical of her, she strode ahead with her usual assertiveness.

Left with no choice, I canceled the ride and followed her downstairs.

The moment I sat in the passenger seat, I noticed an animation sticker stuck to the dashboard. It read, "Boyfriend's Exclusive Seat".

Joyce had always been meticulous, and she hated unnecessary decorations in her car.

It was obvious who had stuck the sticker there.