Done Being His Second Choice

When the acute gastritis hit, I called Blake Sanchez and asked him to take me to the hospital.

All he said was:

Bianca Whitman's running a little fever, and she just moved to Southport and lives alone with no one to look after her. I need to get her some medicine first. Just tough it out on your own.

She was always Blake's one exception.

For three years I'd taught myself, again and again, to step aside.

Dinners with my family and friends.

He'd leave early, halfway through, because Bianca said she was feeling down and needed company.

Even the anniversary date we'd spent so long planning could be cut short by a single call from her asking for help.

I kept thinking all my patience would eventually earn me a sliver of Blake's favor.

With no other choice, I went to the hospital alone, holding the pain in by myself.

The IV drip left me nothing to do, so I idly refreshed my feed.

The newest post was Bianca's.

A photo of the warm oatmeal Blake had made for her, with the caption:

Always caught by him, always the one he loves best.

The wind off the street carried its chill in through the window, and at last my head cleared.

I didn't want to keep guarding this one-sided drain of a relationship, torturing myself.

I switched over and opened my email.

I pulled up the job offer the Northgate recruiter had sent.

There were only a scattered few people in the infusion hall.

At the care station diagonally across from me, a couple leaned into each other.

The man cupped the girl's wrist where the needle went in, blew on a cup of hot water until it cooled, then handed it to her.

I watched from a distance, and my nose stung all at once, so I looked away.

I opened my phone. The feed I hadn't gotten around to swiping past was still sitting on Bianca's post.

Bianca was the poor junior from his college that Blake had been sponsoring all along.

Blake always treated her fragility as a responsibility he had to cover.

And he was in the habit of overlooking me, who was carrying just as much.

The cramping that had seized me at two in the morning surfaced again, sharp and clear.

I'd been pulling overtime for half a month straight on a project, still running nonstop through the final push, and my stomach had been aching faintly for a while.

Before I left on a business trip last week, I'd deliberately pulled Blake over, pointed at the medicine box, and told him to restock the everyday stomach medicine when he got a chance.

He'd been bent over his phone, replying to Bianca.

He'd tossed off an "Mm," agreeing quick and clean.

But at dawn today, hurting so much I couldn't stand, I stumbled through and dug out the whole cabinet.

Every last pill was expired. Not one of them any use.

Three years of living together, and the household supplies and medicine were always bought and organized by me, in whatever spare time I could find.

Blake could never keep the laundry detergent brand straight, couldn't even tell cold medicine from fever medicine.

As if keeping this little home running had always been mine alone to carry.

With a shaking hand, I dialed Blake.

The instant the line connected, I still held on to a thread of hope.

But he didn't even ask, "Does it hurt bad?"

"Bianca just moved to Southport and lives alone, she's got a bit of a cold now, and there's no one there to take care of her."

"I need to run her some medicine first. Hold out on your own, can't you just wait it out till morning and go to the hospital then?"

The pain broke my words into pieces as I forced myself to reason with him.

"I can't hold out anymore. Drop off her medicine and then come to the hospital, okay? I'm really scared, being here by myself."

What I got back was his open impatience:

"She's just a young girl living alone on a high floor. Getting sick at night, that's dangerous for her."

"You're an adult, at least. What's going to happen if you just grab a cab to the hospital yourself? Don't be so difficult."

Does being an adult mean you deserve to bear a splitting midnight pain alone?

I gripped the burning-hot phone, and my chest went colder than the cramping in my stomach.

I hung up without a word and called a car to the hospital alone.

That photo of warm oatmeal was still sitting on his feed.

Last month I ran a fever of a hundred and two.

He'd dropped a takeout box by the door and left me one line: "Eat it while it's hot."

Then he turned around and went out to keep Bianca company, wandering the shops to cheer her up.

That night the two of them stayed out late, and he even posted a photo of them at the night market.

So it turned out his gentleness, his patience, his care had never once belonged to me.

Then HR called.

She and I were close, and I could hear how hard this was for her to say.

"Katherine, I'll be straight with you. The director slot in marketing was meant to be yours."

"Director Maxwell brought it up in the meeting, said it should go to Bianca instead. His reasoning was that it's rough for someone just starting out. Just so you know."

The drip ticked louder in my ear, each drop landing straight on my chest.

Three years of endless all-nighters. Three million-dollar core projects. Number one in the department, without fail.

The promotion I'd broken myself to reach.

And with one light little "she's under more pressure," he'd hand it away.

Work or life, in his heart I would always come after Bianca.

I looked down and opened the Northgate offer I'd sat on for so long.

My fingertip hovered over the button to accept.

The last bit of me that couldn't let go shattered right there in the infusion hall.

The next day was our third anniversary, Blake's and mine, so after I was discharged I went out of my way to stop by the boutique.

I came out with a big bag of fairy lights and balloons printed with a photo of the two of us.

And a bottle of the red wine he'd been going on about for ages.

Buried underneath was one last wish I kept lying to myself about.

Maybe, once he saw how wretched I'd looked on that drip alone, he'd finally understand what mattered.

Back at the place we shared, I forced my weak body to keep moving and set up the living room, piece by piece.

By the time I finished it was evening, and I sat quietly on the couch to wait for him.

It wasn't until eight that night that Blake's short message finally popped up:

*Bianca's fighting with her landlord and she's falling apart. I have to take her out for a bit. I'll be back late. Don't wait up.*

Not one word about how my gastritis was healing. Not a mention of what day it was.

At eleven, I heard the door open.

Blake walked in carrying the night's chill on him, half a strawberry cake in his hand.

He glanced around at all the decorations and frowned, his voice thick with impatience.

"A perfectly nice place, and you've turned it into this. It doesn't suit the apartment at all."

He didn't see the disappointment banked in my eyes at all. He just pushed the half cake into my hands.

"Bianca loves strawberry cake. Here's the rest."

But the doctor had told me again and again that for now I could only have bland, liquid food.

I looked down at that half-eaten cake, and it suddenly struck me as absurd.

I didn't take the cake. I turned around and quietly cleared away every decoration in the room, not saying a word the whole time.

Blake just assumed I was in a mood, and went off to wash up and sleep.

That weekend, both sets of parents had already made plans.

Under the excuse of our third anniversary, they'd meet to talk about our engagement.

The night before, I kept catching Blake's arm to tell him how much this dinner mattered.

I wanted to use it, with the elders all there, to properly talk to him about being passed over for the promotion.

To ask for what was fair.

He was in the middle of replying to Bianca, and nodded me off.

"Got it. Don't worry, I'll be with you the whole time today. I won't leave halfway through."

The dinner was booked in a private room.

My mother had a big box of the cured bacon and dried fruit snacks Blake liked ready well in advance, saying she'd send it home with him after the meal.

Through dinner the elders took turns teasing the two of us.

I managed a strained smile and played along, quietly waiting for my chance to talk to Blake about work.

Halfway through dinner, Blake's phone started buzzing like mad.

It was Bianca calling.

He answered, and within two minutes his face had gone tight. He stood up to leave.

Without thinking, I caught his wrist and lowered my voice. "You can't go right now. Both families are here."

"Bianca's building lost power. She's the only girl in the whole place. She's scared."

Blake shook my hand off, his voice edged with blame. "Can't you be a little more considerate? She needs me right now."

And with that, ignoring the stunned elders around the table, he grabbed his coat and walked straight out of the private room.

The relatives exchanged glances and kept asking where Blake had gone.

My fingers clenched the tablecloth. All I could do was force a calm face and lie. "Something urgent came up at the company. He had to rush over."

The rest of the meal was pure torment, the elders whispering among themselves.

Every word, spoken and unspoken, said the same thing: Blake didn't care about me at all.

My mother sat beside me, her eyes full of ache.

She quietly took my hand and murmured, "Sweetheart, I can see it. He's never once put you first."

"This engagement. You have to think it through."

The box of local specialties I'd prepared specially for Blake sat quietly against the wall.

No one gave it another glance.

Back home, I opened the recruiter's email I'd left sitting for so long.

I clicked to accept the interview for the Northgate offer.

Every obsession that had trapped me in this city needed to end here.

Blake didn't come back until the small hours, reeking of alcohol. The moment he walked in, he was frowning and scolding me.

"You had to stop me today, and Bianca had to sit alone in a dark room, scared out of her mind. Don't you think that's selfish of you?"

"She was already in a bad mood. Couldn't you show me a little more understanding?"

I stood under the light and looked at him, quietly.

Whatever love was left in my heart went out completely.

Another day's work over.

The moment I pushed the door open, my feet froze in the entryway.

There, in the most prominent spot on the top shelf of the shoe cabinet, sat a pair of creamy-white fuzzy slippers.

Size 36. Her size.

Soft, thick, plainly a pricey pair off a department-store display.

Compared to that gray pair I'd worn for years, the toes worn pale.

I'd mentioned wanting a new pair several times, and every time Blake had brushed it off, saying they'd do for a while longer.

I walked to the bathroom.

Most of the counter was taken up by a full set of Bianca's designer skincare.

The order Blake had placed a while back, the one I'd stumbled on.

In three years, he'd never once bought me any skincare on his own.

Back then, I'd naively assumed it was an anniversary gift for me.

The door to the unused guest room stood open, the bed made up with a brand-new, soft bedding set.

The closet was full of Bianca's clothes, even a stuffed toy from her childhood.

The whole place was covered in traces of her.

As if I were the outsider who didn't belong in this home.

Blake happened to walk out of the guest room carrying a glass of warm water, and explained it lightly.

"Bianca's rental had a pipe burst. The walls are all soaked, she can't stay there for now."

"Our place is close to her office, and the spare room's just sitting empty anyway. It's completely normal to let her stay a while. Don't read into it."

"Stay a while?"

My voice shook, my eyes sweeping over everything in the apartment that belonged to Bianca.

"Everything's already set up. You call that staying a while?"

Blake's brow furrowed, his tone thick with impatience, as if I were the one making trouble over nothing.

"They're just a few small things. Do you have to be this petty?"

"A young girl on her own out there, it's hard for her. What's wrong with me looking after her a little more?"

Three years of swallowed grievance came roaring up at once.

I turned, walked into the study, and pulled open the drawer.

A thick stack of bills went out across the coffee table.

Three years of payment records, every one of them clearly marked.

Every expense split down the middle between us.

Back when Bianca only stayed over now and then, the cost of it came out of what we both paid. She had never contributed a single cent.

I pointed at the receipts and asked him, word by word,

"When she came occasionally, we shared the cost. I let it go."

"Now she's moved in for good, and you've bought all of it. This moneyhow do you plan to settle it?"

Blake glanced at the pile of bills and waved a careless hand.

"Fine, count all of it as mine. What's the big deal."

"I never thought you were this calculating, keeping track of every little expense down to the penny."

"Besides, the deed to this apartment is in my name. Who I let stay here is none of your business."

One weightless sentence, and it ground three years of building a home together into dust.

I looked at this man I had handed my whole heart to, and felt only that he was a stranger, and that I was cold to the core.

So in his eyes, three years of what I gave meant nothing at all.

I didn't argue with him anymore. I walked into the bedroom in silence.

Pulled out the suitcase and packed my clothes, one piece at a time.

I didn't sleep all night.

The next day at the office, in the department meeting.

Blake announced in front of everyone that the year's single most important project would be handled entirely by Bianca.

Every premium client and every good channel would be tilted her way.

What was left for me was the cleanup and the odds and ends.

And all of it was for next week's director review.

He wanted Bianca to walk in with a set of impressive project results and win the panel over.

At the lunch break I went to his office and laid out two requests.

First, clear all of Bianca's personal things out of the apartment as soon as possible. I couldn't share a home with someone else.

Second, distribute the work resources fairly. I had every right to be on the core project.

Blake leaned back in his office chair, his face full of disappointment. "Katherine, how can you be this narrow-minded and selfish?"

"Bianca has no one to lean on, not a single relative in this city. It's only right that I help her more. Do you really have to compete with her over everything?"

Talking to him got me nowhere.

My heart sank all the way down, and I only turned and left without a word.

The morning of the review, Blake was out the door before daybreak.

By the time I had my materials together and went down to the garage, my car was gone.

I texted him, called him, one after another.

It took more than a dozen tries before he finally picked up.

"I took your car to pick up Bianca. She's nervous about her review today, so I'm giving her a ride and running through her defense with her on the way."

"My car's in for service. So what if you make do with yours for once?"

The sheer absurdity of it swept over me.

I gripped the phone, my voice shaking beyond my control. "You know exactly how important today's review is to me."

"I ground through three years, killed myself for the numbers, all for today, for a shot at the director position."

On the other end, Blake's tone was flat, even edged with reproach. "I know."

"But whether Bianca can get her footing in Southport clearly matters more than one review of yours."

When those words landed in my ear, I understood it completely. No amount of arguing would change a thing.

I forced down the surge of bitterness, hung up, and went out to hail a cab.

Morning rush hour was gridlocked, and the wait in the cab line ran a full forty minutes.

I ran the whole way to the review meeting room in my heels, the backs of them rubbed raw until they bled.

By the time I reached the review room, out of breath, the evaluation had already been running for fifteen minutes.

The staffer told me, expression flat.

More than ten minutes late meant automatic disqualification from this review.

Just before the end of the day, the promotion notice popped up in the company group chat:

New Marketing Director: Bianca Whitman

The veiled glances of the coworkers around me landed on my face.

Not long after, Blake came over to my desk and lowered his voice. "You got the short end this time. I'll make it up to you with a good project next time around."

I looked up at him. The straw from the latte I'd bought for Bianca was still sticking out of my pocket.

I lowered my head and opened the text on my phone. The Northgate recruiter had sent word that I'd passed the final interview.

I started Monday, sharp, at a salary and title far above what I had now.

In that moment there was no reluctance to leave. Only relief.

After work I went straight home. I pushed the door open, and Bianca's usual perfume still hung in the air.

I walked into the storage room to start packing, and pulled open the top cabinet without thinking.

Most of the space was crammed with fancy gift boxes and all kinds of imported snacks.

All of it from Blake to Bianca.

In a small box in the corner sat everything he'd given me in three years:

Two cheap hair ties worth a few dollars, and one alloy necklace that had lost its color.

I quietly packed up my own things.

Three years living here, and when I left, I couldn't even fill a single suitcase.

Half the motion-sensor lights in the stairwell were broken, and I dragged my suitcase down alone.

The metal corner cracked hard against my shin, and warm blood welled up at once.

I crouched down and wiped it off, quickly.

Not a single tear fell. If anything, I felt lighter all over.

Past one in the morning, Blake came back with Bianca after their movie.

The entryway was bare, every trace of me gone from the apartment.

His first instinct wasn't to look for me. He rushed straight into the second bedroom.

He went through Bianca's things one by one, checking whether anything was missing.

Only after confirming her things were all intact did he think to message me.

A red exclamation mark popped up on his screen.

He called, and a cold automated tone told him he'd been blocked.

WeChat, work chat, email, every way to reach me. I'd cut them all off.

Only then did he sense something was wrong and start contacting the people who could still reach me.