I Stopped Being Their Cash Cow, Now They're Begging

“Put it on me,” she said.

She draped her hand over his arm with practiced ease, her nails trailing along the inside of his forearm. It was an intimate gesture.

Naomi's skin had always been fair, and the bracelet only made it look creamier, more flawless.

Then Tristram reached over and opened the box in front of me.

“Let me put yours on too,” he said.

He picked up the earring inside and brought it toward my earlobe. Only up close did he realize I didn't have a single piercing.

His hand froze.

I looked at the earring pinched between his fingers. Such a tiny thing.

The bracelet, same brand, cost five times as much.

This was what Tristram called fair.

One look from him, and Naomi rose and clamped down on my hands.

“Ellie, hold still,” she said.

Tristram aimed the sharp post at my earlobe, as if he actually meant to force it straight through.

“I've seen other people pierce ears like this. I'll do it fast, it won't hurt, I promise.”

I thrashed like mad. “Let go of me!”

In the struggle, Tristram's grip slipped and the earring dropped, rolling off into a corner.

The place was packed, and it ended up kicked away somewhere no one could see.

I pushed back my chair and stood, my face burning red.

“You two eat. I'm leaving,” I said.

The dinner broke up on a sour note.

That night, lying in bed, I opened that shared-account post again.

Through her profile picture, I went to Naomi's page.

There were two shared accounts.

One was the three of us. The other was hers and Tristram's.

It was called Naomi & Tris Forever, and there was still thirty thousand left in it.

Tapping in, I could see every post she'd made.

While I was pulling day-and-night shifts at the company, run so ragged my feet barely touched the ground.

She and Tristram had gone to the amusement park together, seen the movie I'd wanted to see for ages, eaten at all kinds of restaurants.

Behind every expense, a photo of the two of them.

It was a full-blown relationship scrapbook.

When I scrolled to April twenty-fourth, there was an expense of fifty-two hundred.

The note said: Day One.

I remembered that day.

Because that was the day I collapsed at my desk, after four straight days on four hours of sleep.

When I came to in the ER, my first instinct was to call Tristram.

It rang and rang. No one picked up.

So I texted Naomi.

I waited forever. The message thread stayed empty.

So that day, with my money in their hands, they'd been busy celebrating Day One of something new.

Like some form of self-torture, I scrolled all the way to the bottom, tears sliding from the corners of my eyes into the pillow.

The next day was the weekend, and I started clearing out the things in my apartment.

I'd be leaving for Southport the following week. Time was tight.

To be closer to the company, I'd rented the place myself.

It was small, only big enough for one person.

It was crammed full of my things.

The toilet leaked, the walls were spotted with mold, and there wasn't even any air conditioning.

The one good thing was that the rent was cheap enough.

The first time Tristram and Naomi came over, they'd flatly refused to step inside, planting themselves at the door.

“What kind of dump is this? Fit for rats,” they'd said.

My hands had stilled over my things back then, and I'd gone red from my ears down my neck, hot with shame.

I opened the cabinet and dug out some of the old things.

The couple's outfit Tristram and I had bought, the embroidery on the chest faded now.

The ceramic mug Naomi and I had made together, a crack running along the bottom that I hadn't noticed until who knows when.

I found a big bag, packed all of it inside, tied it shut, and tossed it into the trash room.

The moment the bag left my hand, I felt lighter than I ever had.