My Best Friend Owed Me Three Hundred Thousand Dollars

The next day I went to the bank to check my balance. It had dropped by a whole zero.

The teller asked if I wanted a printed statement. I said yes.

Three transfers. Recipient: Rachel Holloway. Time: 2:41 a.m. to 2:43 a.m.

Two minutes. Three hundred thousand, gone.

I folded the statement, tucked it into my bag, and drove to work.

On the way, I got a call from Janet, a coworker.

"Nora, your friend Rachel messaged our group chat yesterday. She said she's having a family emergency and wants to borrow money from everyone. She also said you already helped her with part of it."

I hit the brakes.

"What group?"

"The one with our little dinner crew. She asked Megan and Fiona too—borrowed twenty thousand from each."

I hung up and scrolled through the group chat.

Sure enough, Rachel had sent a message saying she was in trouble, that Nora had generously helped, and she was hoping the other girls could pitch in too.

She'd even screenshotted part of a conversation between us—the part where I said, "If you need help, come to me."

But she'd cropped out the context.

The full message was: "If you need help, come to me and talk—but that doesn't mean I can help with everything."

Megan and Fiona had each sent twenty thousand.

Add my three hundred thousand.

In one night, she'd walked away with three hundred and forty thousand dollars.

At lunch I texted Rachel: "You borrowed money from Megan and Fiona too?"

Her reply came fast: "Oh, just a little, to tide me over. I'll pay them back soon."

"I thought you said you only owed three hundred thousand in loans?"

"Interest, girl. Interest adds up too."

I didn't push it.

A week later, I was working late at the office until nine. I opened Instagram to scroll.

Rachel had posted a new update. Nine photos in a grid—brand-name sneakers, a designer handbag, a full set of high-end skincare. Together, easily over ten thousand dollars.

Caption: "Life is hard but you still have to treat yourself right. Women need to learn to love themselves."

I read it three times to make sure I wasn't seeing things.

On the seventh day of owing me three hundred thousand dollars, she'd bought herself over ten thousand dollars' worth of luxury goods.

I scrolled back through her feed.

Starting from the day she borrowed the money, every two or three days there was a new post—trendy restaurants, spa treatments, a full set of gel nails.

I sat in the office staring at those photos, then pressed the screen dark.

The second week, I worked up the courage to ask her to dinner, wanting to discuss her repayment plan face to face.

She showed up and immediately ordered a full spread, plus a bottle of wine.

"My treat. Thanks again for helping me out."

"Rachel, how are you planning to pay this back?"

Her chopsticks paused over a dish.

"What's the rush? It's not like I said I wouldn't pay you back. You make—what— tens of thousands a month? Three hundred thousand is just a few months' salary for you. I'm different. I only make six thousand."

"Six thousand a month is still enough to pay in installments. Five thousand a month, and you'd be done in five years."

"Five years? Nora, are you serious? My rent is three thousand five hundred, two thousand for food, plus transport and phone bills—six thousand barely covers my expenses. What am I supposed to pay you with?"

She put down her chopsticks, visibly annoyed.

"Are you trying to pressure me?"

That question stopped me cold.

It was my three hundred thousand dollars. I'd asked one question about a repayment plan, and somehow I was the one pressuring her.

I ended up paying for dinner.

Four hundred and eighty-two dollars.