Worried about my boyfriend, Jace, who claimed he was too sick to text, I went to help him. What I found shattered my trust and spun my life in a new direction. Days later, an unexpected visitor appeared, and together, we turned heartbreak into a bold adventure that changed everything.
I’m Kate, and one cool autumn afternoon, I sat in my snug apartment, staring at my silent phone. Jace hadn’t visited in days, saying he was tired, but his vague excuses didn’t add up. I called him, my nerves jangling. “Hey,” he mumbled, sounding sleepy. “Sorry, I was out cold. I think I’m sick—maybe a fever.” He coughed roughly and rushed off. “I’ll text soon.” The call ended abruptly, leaving me unsettled. If he was unwell, I had to do something. I pulled on my coat, determined to care for him. At the store, I grabbed apples, tea, and lozenges, imagining his relief when I arrived.
At his building, I took the elevator, the grocery bag heavy. When the doors slid open, my heart froze. Jace stood there, holding a woman I didn’t know, their embrace too close for comfort. “Not so sick, huh?” I said, my voice cutting. Jace flinched, stepping back. “Kate, let me explain!” I raised a hand. “Save it.” I tossed the groceries at him, oranges rolling across the floor, and walked away, my pulse pounding. He didn’t follow, and I was glad. He was done.
Days later, Jace hadn’t reached out—no call, no text, no sorry. The silence hurt, keeping me trapped in anger. I needed to move on, so I texted him to meet at our old café, a place tied to happier times. At 6 p.m., I sat in our booth, the scent of pastries souring my mood. By 8 p.m., he was a no-show. His text came: “I can’t face you like this.” I stared, incredulous. He cheated, yet acted hurt? My blood boiled.
When I got home, I stopped dead. The woman from the elevator stood at my door, looking anxious. “Why are you here?” I snapped. She spoke calmly. “I’m Ashley. I need to talk.” I crossed my arms. “I’m over Jace. He’s all yours.” She shook her head. “I don’t want him. I see his lies now, and I thought you’d understand.” Curious despite my rage, I let her in. “Fine, talk.”
Over glasses of wine, Ashley explained. “Jace said you were awful, ignored him, flirted with others. I thought he’d choose me.” I laughed bitterly. “He fed me the same lies, made me feel worthless while cheating.” We’d both been duped. “He can’t get away with this,” Ashley said, her eyes sharp. “Let’s hit him where it hurts—his ego.” Knowing Jace’s homophobia, we hatched a plan.
We set up fake dating profiles for Jace, using his pictures and sending flirty messages to men, arranging meetups at his place. We posted his number online for late-night chats. His panicked texts—“Who’s doing this?”—had us in stitches. The kicker was a billboard with his face, reading, “Looking for male love.” Seeing it up was pure joy. Jace pleaded for us to stop, so I demanded cash for a Spain trip. When he paid, I texted, “Sorry, the accounts are locked, and the billboards stay up.”
We blocked him and flew to Spain, landing in warm sunlight. On the beach, sipping cocktails, Ashley grinned. “Best revenge ever.” I raised my glass, laughing. I’d lost a cheating boyfriend but gained a fierce friend. The trip marked a new start, and I’d never felt freer.
