When My Boyfriend Chose His Coworker Over Me

The restaurant was the kind of place Kade loved. White tablecloths. Candles that cost more than my weekly groceries. A wine list thick as a textbook. I sat between him and a senior partner's wife whose name I'd already forgotten, trying to hold my water glass steady and not think about how much this dinner was costing us — costing him, really, since I hadn't earned a paycheck in eight months.

Leslie sat across from me. She wore ivory. She always wore ivory or slate or camel, colors that made her look like she belonged in a museum. Her hair was pulled back so tight it could've been painted on. She smiled at me once when we sat down, the kind of smile you give a child.

I hated her. I hated that I hated her.

The conversation moved through work gossip and vacation homes and someone's yacht. I nodded when it seemed right. Kade's hand rested on the table near mine but never touched it. He was laughing at something the senior partner said, his voice louder than usual, the way it got when he wanted to be noticed.

Then Leslie tilted her head and looked at me like she'd just remembered I was there.

"Ivy," she said, her voice warm as honey. "Don't you have some sort of hobby? I feel like Kade mentioned it once."

The table went quiet. Not silent, just… waiting.

I set my fork down. "I do fiber art. Textile embroidery, mostly."

"Oh, how sweet." Leslie's smile widened. She looked around the table like she was sharing a secret. "What a charming little sewing hobby. Like knitting for grandmothers."

Someone laughed. A man two seats down. Then the senior partner's wife made a soft sound that might've been agreement. The senior partner himself chuckled and said something about his own mother's quilting phase.

I looked at Kade.

He was lifting his wine glass. He wasn't looking at me.

"Speaking of quarters," he said, his voice smooth, easy, like nothing had happened. "The export numbers from last month were incredible. Leslie, didn't you say the Milan contract came through ahead of schedule?"

Leslie's eyes stayed on me for one more second. Then she turned to Kade and launched into something about logistics and timelines. The conversation moved on. The candles flickered. Someone ordered dessert.

I sat there with my hands in my lap, running my thumb along the edge of my napkin, and told myself I was being too sensitive. Kade was under pressure. This was what supporting someone looked like. You swallowed things. You smiled. You didn't make it a thing.

But my chest felt tight, like someone had laced me into a corset and pulled the strings too hard.

I excused myself. No one looked up.

The restroom was all black marble and gold fixtures. I locked the stall door and stood there, staring at the back of it, trying to breathe. My reflection in the mirror afterward looked fine. Composed. I gripped the edge of the sink and whispered to myself, "He's under pressure. Don't make it a thing. You're fine."

I fixed my lipstick. I went back to the table.

No one noticed I'd been gone.

—

Back at the apartment, I waited until Kade closed the door behind us. He dropped his keys on the counter and loosened his tie, already halfway to the whiskey cabinet.

"Kade."

He glanced over. "Yeah?"

I stood in the kitchen doorway, my arms crossed. "What Leslie said tonight—"

"Don't." He poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass. "Don't make it a thing."

"She called my work a hobby for grandmothers."

"She was just being friendly." He took a sip, eyes on the television he was already turning on. "You're too sensitive."

"You didn't say anything."

He sighed, the kind of sigh that meant he was done with the conversation before it started. "What was I supposed to say, Ivy? Make a scene at a work dinner? You know how important tonight was."

I stood there. The apartment was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator.

"Right," I said finally. "I know."

He sat on the couch and flipped through channels. I walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. My mother's embroidery hoop was on the bookshelf, tucked between a stack of Kade's business books and a framed photo of us from two years ago. I reached for it and ran my thumb along the carved wood, the grain smooth and familiar under my skin.

I didn't cry. I just sat there, holding it, until I heard Kade's voice from the other room asking if I was coming to bed.

"In a minute," I called back.

I didn't move.

—

The next morning, I woke before his alarm. The apartment was still dark. I slipped out of bed and went to the corner by the window where I kept my supplies in a canvas tote bag from art school. I unrolled the textile piece I'd been working on in secret — a coastal landscape stitched from memory, all salt marsh grass and low country light. My hands moved without thinking, needle through fabric, the rhythm my mother taught me.

Kade's alarm went off.

I rolled the piece back up and slid it behind the bookshelf, tucking it out of sight. By the time he appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and asking if there was coffee, I was already in the kitchen, filling the pot, my hands steady.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm making it now."

He kissed the top of my head and disappeared into the bathroom.

I stood at the counter and watched the coffee drip, slow and dark, into the pot.