After Lefting Me On The Bridge He Lost His Mind Chapter 01
After seven years together, my boyfriend had finally agreed to take me to meet his family for Thanksgiving.
When we reached the George Washington Bridge, a downpour started.
He pulled over. “Baby, I think the trunk might not be closed all the way. Can you get out and take a look?”
I didn’t think anything of it. I pushed open the door and ran through the rain to the back of the car.
The moment my hand touched the trunk, Truett locked the doors, hit the gas, and sped away.
The wind howled. I stood on the bridge, shivering.
I pulled out my phone to call him, but Chloe’s Instagram Story popped up first.
[I won. Truett really ditched his boring fiancée on the bridge so I could get a Chanel.]
Someone had commented below: [Truett, you really had the balls to dump Mavis on the GWB the day you were taking her to meet your family? No matter how much she puts up with, she’s finally going to lose it.]
Truett replied instantly.
[Relax. She can’t leave me. I’ll text her in a bit, and she’ll come crawling back.]
[Chloe won tonight. Venmo her the money. She got a flat and she’s scared of thunder, so I’m on my way to get her.]
Chloe was the new intern at his company.
I looked out at the black water of the Hudson, wiping the rain from my face.
So meeting his family was a lie.
Pleasing Chloe was the only thing that mattered.
I took out my phone, gave notice to our apartment management that I was moving out, then deleted every trace of Truett from my phone.
…
Rain hammered the bridge. Wind roared up from the river.
I was already burning up with a fever. My vision dimmed in waves, and I had to cling to the guardrail as I stumbled toward the emergency phone a mile away.
My phone buzzed again.
In Truett’s iMessage group chat with his friends, someone named Ryan had sent a video.
In it, Truett was standing in the rain, taking off the dark gray suit jacket I had spent half an hour ironing for him and draping it over Chloe’s shoulders.
Her hair was damp. He lowered his head, brushed a wet strand from her face, and helped her into the passenger seat.
Leo followed up with a few screenshots of Zelle transfers.
[Lost fair and square. Sent the 15k. Tell Chloe to buy herself a nice bag.]
[But damn, Truett, you really spoil her. You left Mavis on the road just so Chloe could win?]
Chloe posted a photo, too.
In it, Truett was crouched beside a tire, the cuffs of his white shirt smeared with muddy rainwater, a fresh scratch across the back of his hand.
The caption read:
[Thanks to Truett for helping me win the bet. Got my bag money! Hope some people don’t get jealous for no reason.]
I stared at that sentence for a long, long time.
She knew.
Everyone in that group knew.
They knew I was still on the bridge, and they treated me like a prop in their game.
I called Truett. He didn’t pick up until the last ring.
“Mavis?”
It was Chloe. Her voice was soft and sweet.
“Truett’s in the shower. He got soaked just now, and I’m helping him—”
My teeth were chattering.
“Put him on.”
A few seconds later, Truett took the phone. His voice was cold.
“Mavis, Chloe twisted her ankle and she’s been crying. I just got her settled. Do you have to start something right now?”
I gripped the railing tighter. “I’m still on the bridge. I have a high fever.”
“It’s just a cold.”
He cut me off.
“Every time Chloe’s involved, you suddenly don’t feel well. Do you really have to be so dramatic to get attention?”
He had touched my forehead at dinner. He knew I was running a 102-degree fever.
“Truett, I’m saying this one more time. The bridge is closed.”
“Then call roadside assistance.” His tone grew sharper with impatience. “You’re an adult. Stop expecting me to handle everything for you. Chloe needs me right now.”
He hung up.
When the screen went dark, I saw my own pale face reflected in it.
Half an hour later, a bridge authority truck pulled up beside me.
The driver got out, draped a rain poncho over my shoulders, and handed me a cup of hot water.
“Ma’am, get in the truck. Your lips are purple.”
Even a stranger could see I was freezing.
But Truett couldn’t.
At three in the morning, as I sat in the ER with an IV in my arm, I saw another photo on Instagram.
Truett was at the counter of a luxury boutique, swiping his Amex Black card. Chloe was hugging a limited-edition bag, beaming.
The caption read:
[The best holiday rescue is a boss who knows how to take care of his people.]
That night, I got a gift, too.
A free plastic bottle opener from a French restaurant.
When Truett pushed it across the table to me, he’d even smiled. “You always say you like little surprises, right? Here. A holiday gift.”
I looked down and opened my canvas tote.
Inside was the seventh-anniversary scrapbook I had spent months putting together. Ticket stubs, photos, chat screenshots from college until now—I had documented our entire life together.
I threw the scrapbook and the bottle opener into the trash, then opened my chat with Jenna.
A month ago, she had asked if I wanted to transfer to the Austin branch.
I had turned her down then.
This time, I sent my confirmation.
Jenna replied almost immediately.
[Are you sure? Once you sign, your department can’t block it.]
The hand with the IV needle in it ached.
I hit confirm.
[I’m sure. Please arrange it as soon as you can.]Â