His Secret Affair Broke Me,But I Rose Higher

On my birthday, I scrolled past a video of my boyfriend—supposedly away on a business trip—proposing to my best friend during a street interview.

The crowd around them dug into their love story.

"So, man, what do you like about her?"

"She's pure."

Someone in the crowd couldn't resist stirring the pot.

"What, you've been with someone who wasn't?"

Logan Dickerson went quiet for a beat.

"She slept with a guy the second she turned eighteen."

The video erupted—a mess of cheers and jeers tangled together.

The cheers were for them. The jeers were for me.

……

Tears slid down my cheeks. I pressed my thumb against Logan's face on the screen.

The front door opened. Logan was home.

"Babe, I got your favorite cake! Come give me a kiss."

"Been working overtime for days. I'm beat. Let me wash up."

He pecked me on the lips, set the cake on the table, and disappeared into the bathroom.

I touched my face. The tears had already dried.

I looked at the cake.

The frosting was a sloppy mess, no design to speak of, covered haphazardly in sliced kiwi.

I read the bakery name on the box and pulled up the map on my phone.

The shop was less than two hundred yards from the boardwalk where he'd proposed to her.

A laugh almost escaped me. Almost.

There was a time he'd driven across the entire city and waited in line for five hours just to buy me an egg tart.

Now all that was left was whatever he could grab without thinking.

Logan came out of the bathroom, his voice tinged with guilt.

"Why are you just sitting here by yourself? I'm sorry I couldn't be here for your birthday."

"You know how it is—I'm at a critical point for the promotion. Business trips and overtime are unavoidable. I'm doing all this for our future."

He opened the box, speared a piece of kiwi with a fork, and held it to my lips.

"I went out of my way to get you a cake. Forgive me? Please?"

He leaned down, his gaze focused and tender.

The same look he'd given her in the video.

"I'm allergic to kiwi."

My voice came out flat. Like I was commenting on the weather.

Logan's hand froze mid-air. Embarrassment crawled up his face.

"Ha—right, I totally forgot. I'll go grab a new one right now!"

He was already at the entryway, but his hands fumbled with his shoes, never quite finishing.

He was waiting for me to stop him.

I never liked wasting his time on myself.

But today, I said nothing.

He lingered for a long while, then drifted back. He sighed and stroked the top of my head.

"Martha Swanson, I know you're upset I wasn't here for your birthday. But can you be a little more understanding? Cut me some slack here."

Understanding.

Understanding that he proposed to someone else on my birthday? Or understanding his half-hearted attempt at making up for it?

My throat locked shut. I couldn't get a single word out.

Logan stood there in the silence for a moment, then turned and walked into the study.

The apartment went completely still.

So still that the draft whistling through the window crack sounded like laughter.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. A bank transfer from Logan. Five hundred and twenty dollars.

I couldn't pinpoint when it started—when money became his way of saying sorry.

He didn't hold me anymore. Didn't murmur soft reassurances. Didn't go out of his way to make things right.

Logan emerged from the study, something unreadable behind his eyes.

"If you don't want the cake, just leave it."

"Something urgent came up at the office. I have to go."

"I'll pick up a new one when I get back tonight."

"Be good."

"What kind of emergency?"

The question left my mouth before I'd thought about it.

"I'm the general manager now. Can you stop questioning me? Just stay home and quit throwing a tantrum."

Irritation flashed across his face. He shot me a look, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

I sat there for a long time.

Then I picked up my phone again, and without quite meaning to, tapped into the street interviewer's account.