My Fiancée and Her Plus One

The lab blew, and my girlfriend—Beatrice Whitmore—didn't even glance my way. She bolted straight for Joseph, wrapping herself around him.

When the dust settled, she climbed into the ambulance with him. I was still on the ground, bleeding out, and she didn't spare me a look. Eighteen years raising him, and apparently, that was all the space her heart had left.

My coworkers dragged me to the hospital. ICU, barely breathing.

When I finally clawed my way out, throat raw, I called my advisor.

"Prof. Beaumont, I'm in. I'll go. Even if it means disappearing for five years, I don't care."

That was supposed to be my wedding month. Not anymore.

After I was hospitalized, people streamed in to see me—family, friends, coworkers.

Beatrice? One call.

"Jojo's a mess. He won't eat unless I feed him. I really can't leave him right now. Take care of yourself, okay?"

Jojo. Joseph. Her "nephew."

Ten years together, and my life still ranked under him picking at his food. Pathetic.

Crazy thing is, she was the one who came after me first.

When people trashed me for being broke, she threw hands—literally yanked some girl's hair out and almost got herself suspended.

I was hooked on shrimp ravioli from this run-down spot across town. Didn't matter if it was pouring, she'd bring it to me.

Math? I sucked. She'd stay up all night fixing my screw-ups, drilling me until I got it.

She was the one who confessed, swore she wanted forever with me.

Now she's the same one bailing on me over and over—for Joseph.

Every throb in my wounds spelled it out—if she didn't love me, I wasn't holding on.

Twenty-five days later, I signed myself out of the hospital and grabbed a cab home.

The model aircrafts I'd spent weeks setting up? Gone. In their place—two giant Transformers.

The swing I built for Beatrice? Replaced with a tacky cartoon sign: [Jojo and Aunt Beatrice's Love Shack]. Two characters smacking lips like it was a joke.

Didn't need to ask. Screamed Joseph.

And like always, no matter how far he pushed it, Beatrice let him.

I laughed under my breath, punched in Joseph's birthday on the lock, and walked in.

Five days till I left with Prof. Beaumont. Just needed to pack.

Upstairs, I swung open the bedroom door—and froze.

Joseph. Shirtless. Lip bitten, chest scratched up.

Beatrice. Slip dress, curled into him like she couldn't breathe without him.

Black lace thong on the floor.

I thought I was ready for anything.

But that? In my house, in my bed? My blood boiled.

How could they do this to me?