Chapter 1Day before my period, I saw this in my fiancé's phone:
"Her cycle hits tomorrow. Tampons + painkillers."
My heart melted. He's PERFECT.
Next morning? Cramps hit like a truck. I'm sweating, digging through my bag—nothing.
Then the wetness hit. Blood spreading across my pants.
Students started pointing, giggling.
Then I saw the intern's post:
"OMG my mentor is literally psychic! Had tampons AND Advil ready before I even knew I needed them! Best day ever! ?♥️"
The pic? My prescription-strength Advil. My one-brand-only tampons.
I twisted the ring off my finger. Walked straight to the principal.
"That spot in France? Mine."
I submitted the application right as the bell rang.
Principal Davis kept shooting me looks. Finally, she caved.
"Claire, you were literally picking out wedding fonts two days ago. You and Evan are tying the knot next month. What's going on?"
I knew what she was really asking.
Exchange programs? Three-year minimum. That kind of distance kills marriages before they even start. Everyone here watched me moon over Evan Anderson for four solid years, date him for three more, just to finally snag that ring.
Why blow it all up now?
Because distance only works when you're both actually in it.
And I just realized—he checked out a long time ago.
I scratched at the dried blood under my nails, remnants of my pathetic tissue patch job.
"Guess it wasn't meant to be after all."
"Do me a favor? Keep this between us."
Pity flickered across her face.
"You got it. No one hears it from me."
"First group flies out tomorrow. Say the word and you're on it."
I nodded, mumbled thanks, and bolted.
My phone lit up. Evan again.
"Seriously? I've been sitting here for ten minutes."
Ever since we shacked up, I had to leave with him. Every. Single. Night.
"Can't have my girl walking to the car alone," I used to gush.
Back when he taught seniors and I had freshmen, he'd clock out two hours after me. I'd park myself in my classroom, killing time on Instagram, acting like waiting was no biggie.
Never once bitched about it.
Now ten minutes was too much to ask.
I stared at my screen, bracing for the wave of heartbreak.
Nothing came.
I typed: "Tied up. Just head out."
Powered off my phone.
An hour later, I'd boxed up all the handoff crap for whatever poor soul got stuck with my classes. My shoulders were screaming by the time I made it to the parking lot.
Pulled out my phone for an Uber.
HONNNK.
I practically hit the ceiling.
Evan's car. Idling right behind me.
I just stood there like an idiot until he laid on the horn again and stuck his head out.
"You planning to stand there all night or what?"
I glanced down at the disaster zone that used to be my jeans. That massive bloodstain. His baby-soft leather seats.
Opened the door anyway.
He looked me up and down and thrust a black grocery bag at me.
"Hang on."
I grabbed it, totally lost.
"You KNOW it's coming and you can't even remember to pack tampons? Claire, come on. You're not a teenager. Can you maybe handle basic hygiene like a grown-up?"
"You've been walking around like a crime scene all day. Half my kids asked if you were dying. Do you have any idea how that looks?"
How it looks.
The blood smell hit me all over again.
I DID pack tampons this morning.
But then I saw his cute little reminder and actually believed he gave a damn about me.
Turns out he does give a damn.
Just not about me.
Chapter 2
I opened the bag.
Inside was some dusty pink pad covered in grime—the kind of generic crap gas stations can't even give away.
"If you didn't have any, you could've just asked someone. But no, you had to hide out all day and make me wait an hour."
"Go change. And don't get blood on my seats."
He kept rambling. I stared at his perfect mouth moving and just felt... exhausted.
I closed the bag.
"Evan, I can't use this brand."
Truth is, I can't use ANY regular pad. They all have adhesive backing, and I'm violently allergic to glue. Even touching it makes me break out in hives.
Let alone sticking it on the most sensitive part of my body during my period.
So I only use one specific brand. The ONLY one that works.
I told him about this when we first started dating.
"Hey, just so you know? I'm allergic to adhesive, so I can only use this one pad. If you ever see it on sale, grab me some?"
Evan didn't even look up from his game.
"You're so high-maintenance."
My hand froze mid-scroll. I forced a smile.
"Sorry, yeah, I'll just... stock up myself. It's complicated, you wouldn't get it..."
That's how he talked to me. Like every other sentence was a baseball bat to the face.
But other than that? He was great. Did chores. Cooked amazing meals. Fattened me up by five pounds.
Never stopped me from buying stuff, even when I'd bring home weird decorations that clashed with his whole minimalist vibe. He'd just shake his head.
"So childish."
Over time, I convinced myself that's just who he was. Blunt. Forgetful. Occasionally mean.
And since I chased HIM first, I figured I had to take the bitter with the sweet.
So I stuck it out for three years.
Until today.
Until I couldn't anymore.
"Why can't you use it?"
He'd asked me that seventeen times over the years. I'd explained sixteen.
This time, I just tossed the pad in a trash can.
"I just can't. And since you're so worried about your car, I'll just Uber home."
His jaw tightened. Then he yanked open the passenger door and shoved me inside.
"It's too late for you to Uber alone. Whatever. I'll just get it detailed tomorrow."
Always half-considerate, half-cruel.
I gripped the seatbelt until my knuckles went white. My throat felt like it was closing.
I pulled out my phone and messaged the wedding photography studio we'd booked.
"Hi, I need to cancel our shoot next week. What's the process?"
The typing bubble appeared and disappeared about a dozen times before she finally replied.
"Ms. Harper, three days ago your wedding shoot was changed to a birthday photoshoot for two. And Mr. Anderson requested we move it up. The edited photos are ready tonight."
"Did he not tell you?"
My finger hovered over the screen. Shaking so hard I almost dropped my phone.
I pressed my wrist down with my other hand to steady it.
I glanced at Evan. Eyes on the road. Focused. Normal.
Like always.
He must've felt me staring because he shot me a look.
"What? Still pouting because I called you out?"
I didn't answer. Just waited until my hands stopped trembling. Then I typed back.
"Can I see the photos?"
The typing bubble flickered again before she sent them. Photos. And a ten-second video.
"Ms. Harper, your fiancé swore we wouldn't get in trouble for this. Please don't make this difficult for us..."
I stopped reading.
Opened the first photo.
A familiar face stared back at me. My eyes burned.
Gina Penn. The new intern. The one who got MY tampons and MY Advil.
There were dozens of photos. In every single one, Evan was right there beside her. Matching outfits. Laughing. Looking like the perfect couple.
I clicked on the video.
Gina pouted at the camera, rubbing her shoulder.
"Ugh, my shoulder's killing me. Evan, can you rub it real quick?"
And there it was. The version of Evan I'd never seen.
Soft. Gentle. Warm.
"Alright, drama queen. One more set and we're done. Then I'll buy you dinner."
Her whole face lit up. She threw her hands in the air.
"Yay!"
My eyes stung. I touched my face, expecting tears.
Nothing.
I was done crying over Evan Anderson.
But I did remember something.
Chapter 3
Right after we got engaged, I begged him to book wedding photos before it was too late.
He refused.
"You KNOW I hate getting my picture taken. Wedding photos just sit in a box. Why are you forcing me to do something I hate?"
I bit the inside of my cheek.
"They won't just sit there. When we're old and our memories fade, we'll look back at them. And our kids will see how happy we were."
"I promise, just two setups. One for the venue backdrop, one outdoor. You won't even be tired."
He looked at me like I was insane.
"So dramatic."
But I wouldn't drop it. I begged for weeks. He said things that made me lock myself in the bathroom and cry. Finally, he gave in.
I researched everything—dresses, locations, photographers. Stayed up until 3 AM making shot lists, then taught high schoolers on four hours of sleep.
Since our wedding was a month away, I paid double to jump the waitlist and rush edits.
But the shoot I spent weeks planning? Evan gave it to someone else.
The guy who "hated photos" suddenly had infinite patience for Gina Penn. Five setups. Costume changes. All smiles.
Made me wonder if he hated photos—or just hated taking them with me.
The car stopped in our building's garage. I opened Gina's Instagram. New post. She'd blurred Evan's face out.
"OMG early bday present! Got the CUTEST pics ever thanks to a special someone ??"
Evan stood outside scrolling. A second later, a red heart appeared under her post.
He never liked mine.
"You coming or what?"
He knocked on the window. I stared at him through the glass.
"You took Gina to do a photoshoot using my wedding package. Why not just do the actual wedding photos with her? You two looked pretty comfortable."
His face went stiff. Then angry.
"Claire, what the hell?"
"You stole MY wedding photoshoot to take birthday pictures with another woman, and you're asking ME what's wrong?"
"Evan, YOU'VE lost your mind!"
I thought I could stay calm. But I screamed it. My throat raw.
He just clicked his tongue.
"Gina's twenty-two and fresh out of grad school. It's her birthday and she doesn't know anyone in town. I'm her mentor. Of course I'm gonna help her celebrate."
"And it's ONE photoshoot. We'll reschedule ours. Why are you being so dramatic?"
I looked at his unbothered face. The anger drained out of me completely.
"Fine."
Won't need them anyway.
His shoulders relaxed.
He typed something. After I got out, he climbed back in the driver's seat.
"Head up without me. Gina's throwing a staff dinner tomorrow for her birthday. She needs help meal prepping. I'm gonna swing by and help her out."
I blinked. I'd planned to talk about canceling the wedding tonight.
No point now.
I nodded. Went upstairs alone.
Dragged my suitcase out of the closet. But looking around our apartment—my books, my throw pillows, my ridiculous cactus collection—I couldn't pack any of it.
Just grabbed my stockpile of pads and Advil.
Called the venue. Canceled the reception. Lost the $8,000 deposit.
Took every cent of the $15,000 Evan gave me as a traditional gift and left it on the nightstand in an envelope. Twisted off my engagement ring and dropped it on top.
Then I grabbed my half-empty suitcase, ordered an Uber to O'Hare, and right before takeoff, sent one last text.
"Let's call off the wedding. I'll handle both our parents. Hope you find someone you actually love."
Hit send. Airplane mode.
Passed out against the window.
When I woke up, we'd landed in Paris. I turned my phone back on.
327 missed calls flooded my screen.
