When My Boyfriend Chose His Coworker Over Me

The brunch place had outdoor seating. Kade liked it because you could see and be seen. I liked it because the mimosas were cheap and I could stretch one glass through a whole meal.

Daniel Park sat across from us, cutting his omelet into neat squares. He was one of the decent ones at the firm. He remembered my name. He asked how I was doing like he actually wanted to know.

"So Leslie starts Monday," he said, glancing at Kade. "That artist residency thing. Pretty cool opportunity."

My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.

Kade took a sip of his coffee. "Yeah. She's excited about it."

Daniel nodded. "I didn't even know the firm sponsored those. Must be competitive."

"Very," Kade said.

I set my fork down. The sound of metal on ceramic was louder than it should've been. I looked at Kade. He was cutting his waffle, eyes on his plate.

"I thought—" I started.

Kade's hand found mine under the table. Squeezed once. A warning.

Daniel kept talking about something else. The new office layout. A client meeting in Boston. I heard the words but they didn't land. My mimosa sat in front of me, the bubbles gone flat.

I smiled. I nodded. I finished my eggs even though they tasted like nothing.

When we left, Kade held the door for me. His hand rested on the small of my back as we walked to the subway. He didn't say anything. Neither did I.

—

I waited until we were home. Until he'd changed out of his brunch clothes and poured himself a whiskey. Until he sat down on the couch and reached for the remote.

"Kade."

He looked up.

I stood in the middle of the living room, my arms crossed. "The residency."

He exhaled through his nose. "Ivy—"

"You said you were working on it. You said the committee was reviewing applications."

"They were."

"And Leslie got it."

"The committee decided." His voice was flat. Practiced. "There were stronger applicants."

I stared at him. "Stronger than me?"

"That's not what I—" He rubbed his face. "Look, I put your name forward. I did what I could. But Leslie's got an MFA from Yale. She's got gallery shows. The committee looks at credentials."

"I have credentials."

"Not the kind they care about." He said it like he was explaining something simple to someone slow. "It's not personal, Ivy. These things are competitive. You can't take it personally."

I stood there. The apartment was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator again. That same low drone that filled every silence.

"Right," I said finally. "Not personal."

He turned the TV on. The light from the screen washed over his face, blue and flickering. I walked into the bedroom and closed the door.

I pulled my canvas tote from behind the bookshelf. My hands were shaking. I unrolled the coastal landscape I'd been working on and spread it across the bed. Then I threaded a needle, knotted the end, and started stitching. Hard. Fast. The needle punched through the fabric like I was trying to pin something down that kept trying to escape.

I stitched until my fingers cramped. Until the thread snarled and I had to cut it and start over. Until the bedroom door opened and Kade stood there in his boxers, squinting at me in the dark.

"You coming to bed?"

"In a minute."

He looked at the fabric spread across the bed, the needle in my hand, the spool of thread unraveling across the comforter. He sighed.

"Don't stay up all night with that," he said. Then he turned and went back to the living room.

I kept stitching.

—

Leslie started showing up everywhere.

Saturday morning at the coffee shop two blocks from our apartment. She waved from the counter, her smile bright and easy. "What a coincidence!" She sat with us. She talked about the residency. The studio space. The gallery connections. Kade nodded along, asking questions, laughing at her jokes.

I stirred my coffee and said nothing.

Sunday brunch with the team. Leslie organized it. She sat at the head of the table, holding court, and everyone leaned in when she spoke. I sat at the far end, next to someone's girlfriend who looked as lost as I felt. The conversation was all acronyms and insider references. Export logistics. Client portfolios. The Milan contract.

I smiled when it seemed right. I nodded. I ate my eggs.

Tuesday night, Kade's phone buzzed during dinner. He glanced at it. "Leslie," he said. "Work thing. Give me a second."

He stepped into the bedroom. I heard his voice through the door, low and easy, the way it used to sound when he talked to me.

I cleared the table. I washed the dishes. I wiped down the counter.

When he came back, I was sitting on the couch with my embroidery hoop in my lap, working on a new piece. He sat next to me and kissed my temple.

"Sorry," he said. "Urgent."

"It's fine," I said.

He turned the TV on.

I kept stitching.

My mother's voice was in my head, the melody she used to hum while she worked. I hummed it without realizing, the needle moving in rhythm, the thread pulling tight.