Page 1 of My Ex-Fiance's Best Men

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PHOEBE

“Oh, for fu?—”

The living room swims in and out of focus, my mascara-crusted eyes refusing to cooperate.

My head throbs like I have daggers through my skull. I can’t tell if it’s from crying or barely sleeping. It’s almost noon, judging by the blade of light cutting between the pulled curtains.

It’s my wedding day.

Correction: itwasmy wedding day.

BING. BING. BING.

My phone goes off next to me, and I briefly consider drop-kicking it through the damn drywall.

Honestly? The phone deserves a medal for enduring the last 24 hours.

BING.

I grab the offensive object. Forty missed messages on the WhatsApp group chat. I skim through them. Pity, shock, a sprinkle of “saw this coming.”

Of course.

But it’s not the breakup itself that sent everyone spiraling.

It’s Matthew’s lovely little public assassination of my dignity from last night.

Let’s not drag this out. I’m calling off the wedding. I can’t marry someone who doesn’t even try. I kept hoping you’d lose the weight, get serious about your appearance, and show some ambition.

-

I move in circles where image matters, Phoebe. I need someone who reflects that. Someone who turns heads. And before you ask, yeah, there’s someone else. Someone who gets it.

-

I know this will be a tough pill to swallow, but maybe it’ll be the wake-up call you need.

Then he left the chat.

Coward.

Certified Grade-A USDA Choice Coward.

Bitterness claws up my throat.

There’s a bottle of water on the table. My spine screams as I sit up. The couch kept me company all night, curled up like a sad armadillo trying not to feel anything.

I take a swig and reread his message.

He could’ve sent it privately.

Posting it publicly was calculated cruelty.

BING.

“Fuck,” I mumble as I start reading through the replies.