My Fiancée and Her Plus One

Beatrice shot up the second she saw me, scrambling into clothes.

"Howard, you should've told me you were coming! Jojo and I didn't do anything—don't take it the wrong way!"

Joseph stretched, yawning.

"Storm freaks me out. I can only sleep if I'm holding Aunt Beatrice. You're not mad about something that dumb, right?"

I was a grown man, yet they almost broke me down.

But I'd promised myself back at the hospital—no more begging, no more losing it over her.

"Nothing to be upset about. Even if you two went at it right here, I wouldn't stop you."

I walked out fast, scared I'd lose it if I stayed.

Beatrice chased me, clutching my arm.

"There's nothing between me and Jojo! How could you say that to him? You'll scar him for life—go apologize!"

I ripped free, voice cracking.

"First it's Jojo won't eat. Now it's Jojo will be traumatized. Beatrice, I spent twenty-five days in the hospital. I almost died. Did you even care?"

Her face shifted—anger melting into guilt.

"It's not like I didn't want to see you. Jojo was really shaken after the explosion. He needed me—I didn't have the time."

That single line killed the fight in me.

All the rage, the tears I'd been choking back—gone.

What was left to argue about? She didn't love me anymore. That was the answer.

Joseph's voice carried down the hall. She shot me a frown.

"Let's just forget today. But don't talk that way to Jojo again." Then she walked off.

Not once did she ask if I was okay.

"Guess I can finally let it go..." I muttered.

I stood there forever before packing. Kept my papers, a few clothes. Trashed everything else.

Only thing left—a stack of portraits Beatrice sketched back when she chased me.

An art major buddy once joked, "No skill, just pure emotion. I couldn't fake this if I tried."

Back then, those messy lines convinced me she loved me.

I laughed, carried the box outside, and set it on fire.

Beatrice came running just as the fire took hold. She shoved past me, reaching straight into the flames for the portraits, not even flinching at the burns.

"What are you doing?" Her voice shook.

I meant to say 'I don't want them anymore.' Instead, what slipped out was, "They were crawling with bugs."

We'd fought for years.

I was just... done. Too tired to keep going.

Beatrice froze for a beat, then tossed the portraits back into the fire.

"Jojo's scared of bugs. I'll draw you new ones later."

"Don't bother," I said.

There was no 'later' for us.

The flames roared, faded, and died, leaving nothing but ash.

Just like us.

I dumped the ashes, then posted: [Five days left, counting today.]

Crashed in the guest room, as far from the master bedroom as I could get.

By morning, my feed was full—friends joking, asking if I was sprinting to marry Beatrice.

She even chimed in: [Can't wait to walk toward you in a wedding dress.]

Biggest liar I've ever known.

I was wiped, inside and out. She wanted to keep up the lovey-dovey act, but I had nothing left.

Didn't reply to anyone. Just washed up and headed downstairs.

Mid-breakfast, Beatrice asked, "Howard, are we still going to the City Hall this afternoon?"

We were supposed to.

But I didn't want to anymore.