He Only Missed My Best Friend

My boyfriend, Dylan, was the definition of prideful—a man who couldn't handle the slightest criticism and only responded to total submission. Every time we had a disagreement, I had to exhaust every ounce of my dignity to beg for his forgiveness. The first time, I stood out in the freezing rain with a hundred-and-two-degree fever all night. The second time, I pulled three consecutive all-nighters to handwrite a hundred-page letter of apology. The third time, I unfurled a massive "I'm Sorry" banner in front of his corporate office building. By the eighth time, my best friend, Amber, finally snapped. She stormed over and slapped him across the face in front of everyone. "What the hell is wrong with you, Dylan? Who gave you the right to treat Naomi like this?" From then on, whenever Dylan threw a tantrum, Amber was the one who came kicking down our door. Dylan’s face would turn bright red with fury: "Nice, Naomi. Bringing in reinforcements to bully me?" Amber would roll her eyes right back: "If Naomi hadn't held me back, I would’ve thrown your ass into Lake Michigan years ago!" They bickered like cat and dog every single time they met, turning our home into a chaotic battleground. But somewhere along the way, Amber started coming over to our place more often than she went back to her own. We even set up a daybed for her in our master bedroom. Until the day I had to work late, forgot to reply to a text, and got locked out of my own apartment for the seventh time. The delivery guy walked past in the hallway, chuckling at the familiar sight. "Call that short-haired girl again. As soon as she shows up, your boyfriend always opens the door." Before he could even finish his sentence, Amber came charging up the stairwell, pounding frantically on the door. Just two knocks, and the door swung open. Dylan stared at Amber, who was panting for breath. His expression was icy, but his voice was laced with panic. "Where the hell have you been the last three days? You didn't reply to a single text." "Naomi’s been locked outside seven times and you didn't show up once—what, you don't care about your best friend anymore?" I watched the cold mask Dylan had worn for three whole days toward me—and saw it melt into warmth the second he laid eyes on Amber. Suddenly, the truth hit me with sickening clarity. He wasn't actually mad at me. He just missed her. ... Amber pushed past Dylan, slipping off her boots and making herself right at home, reaching into the shoe rack for a pair of plush bunny slippers. Those slippers were something Dylan had bought—a matching couple's set with his wolf slippers—though they were never my size. Later, because Amber stayed over so often, Dylan had casually remarked, "Just give them to her. They actually fit her." So those slippers naturally became Amber's. "I was on a business trip, I told you," Amber said, collapsing onto the couch and swatting the back of Dylan's head on her way down. "What? Taking advantage of my absence to bully my girl again?" Dylan scoffed. "Who's bullying her?" "Cut the crap," Amber slapped his arm again. "Apologize!" Dylan let out an annoyed groan, but he flicked his chin toward me in a lazy gesture of surrender. "Fine. I'm sorry, okay? Get inside already." It was the first time in six years that Dylan had backed down first after a fight. I stood frozen. Dylan was a man who demanded total submission; his anger usually took days of groveling to soothe. In our six years together, we had gone through countless fallout cycles. Every single time, I was the one swallowing my pride, trailing behind him, desperately apologizing over and over. What used to take me until three in the morning to resolve was settled by Amber with a single, offhand sentence. Six years of pleading suddenly felt like a cruel joke. On the couch, Amber kicked her feet up on the coffee table and complained she was starving. Dylan grumbled, pretending to be annoyed, and walked into the kitchen. "You are so high-maintenance." "There are some leftover ingredients. I'll whip something up for you to clean off." He pulled a grocery bag from the fridge: ribeye steak, sweet potatoes, butternut squash, and a tub of fresh blueberries. I let out a bitter, silent laugh. None of it was leftovers. Everything in that bag was Amber's favorite food. In the kitchen, Dylan tied on an apron and got to work. My nose stung. Dylan knew how to cook, but he had never cooked a single meal for me. Even when my cramps were so severe I curled into a ball on the bathroom floor, he had only ordered a cold takeout salad. But when Amber was hospitalized with gastritis, he doted on her like a private chef. When I returned from a business trip back then, Amber had grabbed my arm excitedly: "Naomi, you are so lucky! Dylan is an incredible cook! When I was in the hospital, he brought me homemade soups and stews every day—better than any restaurant!" I had stared at her in silence for a long time. When I confronted him about it later, Dylan sneered impatiently: "I did it for you! If I didn't take care of your best friend, wouldn't you flip out on me?" He started getting angry again, so I forced myself to shut up. A while later, Dylan emerged from the kitchen carrying two bowls of garlic butter pasta. "Not enough noodles left, so I only made two bowls." He placed one bowl in front of me. "No cilantro in yours. Eat up." A faint flicker of warmth touched my chest—he remembered my preference. But when I looked up, his head was leaning close to Amber's as they shared the other bowl, whispering and laughing. Noticing my gaze, he casually offered an explanation: "Amber's the guest. I couldn't make her eat your scraps." The words died in my throat. My fork trembled in the pasta, the steam rising to sting my burning eyes. That night, Dylan and I slept in the king bed; Amber slept in the daybed right beside us. The moment I closed my eyes, Amber piped up. "Dylan, look at this video of two cats fighting! It's hysterical, look!" Dylan rolled lazily out of bed. "If it's not funny, you're dead." I turned onto my side, pulling the duvet over my nose. Amber played video after video on full volume. Dylan didn't find it loud, nor did he hesitate to huddle close to her screen. Yet whenever I had wanted him to watch a movie with me in the past, he’d scowl: "Turn it down. I'm busy. Go watch it in another room." Their quiet laughter behind my back grew louder. With my back turned to them, I opened my phone, logged onto my company's portal, and submitted an application for an internal transfer to our Seattle branch. Then, I booked a one-way train ticket for two days later. I slept fitfully that night. In my dreams, painful details I’d spent years ignoring surfaced one after another. There was that group dinner where Amber reached for a piece of salmon sashimi, and Dylan immediately shoved the platter out of her reach. "Don't eat raw food." Amber glared at him: "You boss me around too much." He dropped a piece of grilled eel onto her plate: "Don't call me at midnight complaining about stomach cramps." Then there was the IKEA trip where Amber and I both liked the same floor lamp. Dylan didn't hesitate to throw the last floor lamp into her cart, his voice gruff: "Your apartment living room is dark as a cave. Change the lamp before you go blind." Amber pushed him back: "It's my apartment, who asked you to care?" I stood by the shelves, watching them bicker and push the cart together all the way to the register. In the end, I wandered off alone to pick out a generic desk lamp. At the time, I had genuinely thought: "How lucky am I? I have the man I love and my best friend, and they get along so well." Looking back now, every clue was laid bare from the start. When I woke up, daylight filled the room. Dylan and Amber were already gone. Two texts from Dylan lay on my phone: [You were sleeping so deeply I couldn't wake you up. Driving Amber to work first.] [Family dinner tonight, don't forget.] I stared at those messages for a long time. I wanted to tell him: "You didn't fail to wake me up. You just never tried." When it was time for work, I got dressed and walked out the door. Even taking a cab, the commute from our apartment to my office took an hour and a half. I had made that round trip every single day for six years. Dylan had never driven me once. His excuses were endless: different shifts, out of his way, morning traffic. Yet he could drive thirty minutes out of his way to take Amber to trendy brunch spots or wake up thirty minutes early every morning just to pick her up. On the rare occasions Amber forced him to drop me off first, he wouldn't even turn off the engine. He'd lean over and push open the passenger door: "We're here. Get out." When I couldn't hide my distress back then and expressed my discomfort, Dylan would casually ruffle my hair. "Amber's your best friend. I only take care of her because of you. Don't tell me you're petty enough to be jealous of your own best friend?" That single line—"don't be petty"—made me swallow my pride for six long years. But now, I couldn't swallow it anymore. The family dinner that evening was with Dylan’s parents and extended family. Amber, as my best friend, had attended every family gathering over the years. At the table, Dylan’s aunt smiled at me: "Naomi, Dylan has a stubborn streak. You've been so patient with him all these years." Before I could reply, Amber set her glass down with a clink. "Aunt Susan, you really can't say that. Dylan is actually very reasonable—it's just that some people are completely unreasonable." Everyone’s eyes shifted to her. She continued smoothly: "Even though I'm Naomi's best friend, there are things I just can't stay quiet about. Last month, the three of us went hiking. Halfway up the mountain, Naomi threw a fit and refused to go any further. We tried to talk to her, but she didn't listen and ran off down the trail by herself." "The two of us searched the mountain roads for three hours in the heat until we nearly got heatstroke. Dylan didn't lose his temper once. He kept calling and texting her to apologize. Who else has that kind of patience?" "Oh yeah, I remember that!" Dylan chimed in, laughing. "When we finally found her at the base of the mountain, she was still throwing a fit and had called the park rangers. Unbelievable." My throat tightened. "That's not..." I hadn't run away. I had used the restroom at the trail rest stop, and when I came out, both of them were gone. I had called them nearly a hundred times with no answer, terrified something awful had happened to them, which was why I called the rangers. When the rangers finally escorted me back to them, the two of them were laughing so hard they couldn't stand up straight. "You lost! You lost!" Amber had cheered. "I told you it would take her three hours to find us!" Afterward, Dylan accused me of making a scene by calling the rangers and gave me the silent treatment for a week. Dylan cut me off now. "What 'that's not'? If even Amber says it, shouldn't you reflect on yourself for once?" Under the gazes of his entire family, Dylan and Amber traded lines seamlessly. "That's just her problem—grudge-holding, overly sensitive, drama-prone." "If Amber didn't talk me down every time, the two of us would've broken up years ago." Some relatives laughed politely; someone murmured, "Ah, young couples always have silly fights." My parents sat nearby, their faces tense, forcing tight smiles to smooth things over: "Yes, Naomi can be stubborn. Thanks for putting up with her, Dylan." I gripped my fork, my face burning. "Dylan, can you stop lying?" He couldn't see my agony. He just chuckled: "What lying? Are you saying you didn't call the police? Or that you weren't throwing a tantrum?" Tears welled in my eyes. Dylan blinked, his demeanor shifting as he reached out: "Fine, fine, I won't—" Amber jumped in: "Why shouldn't you say it? You did it, why can't people talk about it? I'm gonna say it! Mrs. Parker, do you know what Naomi did last summer..." She grew more animated, spilling intimate details of my life without hesitation, drawing all of Dylan's attention right back to her. "Right, Naomi? What's the big deal? Everyone's just having fun, nobody's blaming you." The air in the room felt suffocating. I grabbed my bag, pushed back my chair, and walked out. Outside, I realized my train wasn't until tomorrow morning, and my apartment key was still on Dylan's keyring. I had nowhere to go, so I wandered aimlessly through a nearby upscale mall. On the third floor near the boutique stores, someone suddenly wrapped their arms around me from behind. I turned—it was Amber. She acted as if nothing had happened at the dinner table, linking her arm intimately through mine, pouting. "Naomi! Where did you run off to? We've been looking for you everywhere!" Dylan stepped up behind her, grabbing her arm to pull her back, then bent down to lightly brush off the hem of her coat. "Brand new coat, don't go getting it dirty." His tone was harsh, his gesture flicking away dust as if she were a precious item. Amber rolled her eyes at him playfully and yanked me back. "Come on, Naomi! Dylan's dad just transferred him some cash to take you shopping and buy you a few outfits to smooth things over!" That's when I noticed Dylan was holding several luxury shopping bags in his other hand. The logos were all high-end brands Amber frequented. None of them contained anything for me. I stood rooted to the spot, a knot tightening in my throat. Amber didn't notice, pulling me into a high-end boutique. The sales associate rushed over, recognizing Dylan and Amber immediately, offering a warm smile: "Back for more? Your boyfriend almost cleared out our best inventory for you today! He treats you so well!" Amber pretended not to hear, excitedly flipping through racks. "Naomi, pick whatever you like! It's your future father-in-law's money anyway, might as well spend it!" The sales associate’s smile froze. She looked from Amber to Dylan, and finally her eyes landed on me. The realization dawned on her: "I" was the actual girlfriend. Silence hung in the air for two awkward seconds. Nobody corrected her. Nobody explained. Amber shoved a pile of clothes into my arms and pushed me toward the fitting room. "Naomi, try these on! I tried them earlier, the fit is amazing!" The curtain pulled shut. When I came out, Dylan was staring down at his phone, not even bothering to look up. Amber nudged his shoulder in annoyance: "Seriously? You were paying so much attention when you picked clothes for me earlier, now you're tired? Your dad told you to buy Naomi clothes—if she complains to him, you're in trouble." Dylan finally glanced up, his eyes lingering on me for two seconds before returning to his screen: "Looks fine. Pretty." Amber smiled brightly, gathering the pile of clothes to head to the counter. Dylan called out behind her: "Pick the one you like best and have them wrap it up." I stood before the mirror, motionless. My eyes burned, but Dylan didn't see. Or rather, he saw and didn't care. Seeing my lack of reaction, he casually pulled a dress from Amber's pile. "This one then. Wrap it." I looked at the dress he pointed to. It was a gaudy, outdated magenta, two sizes too small for me, with a crooked zipper on the side—clearly a discounted, defective piece. But it was the cheapest item in the stack. I suddenly let out a small, bitter laugh. I took the dress from Dylan's hand and placed it back on the counter. "No thanks. I don't want it, Dylan." Leaving the dress behind, I didn't wait to see his expression and turned toward the exit. Amber immediately chased after me, grabbing my wrist and pulling out her phone. "Wait, wait! You don't like that one? Tell me which one you want, I'll buy it for you!" I shook my head gently. "I don't like any of them." Dylan’s posture hardened, his voice cold, convinced I was making a scene. "Amber, let her go. Don't bother with her. Buying her clothes and she still throws a tantrum. If she doesn't want it, fine!" Buying me clothes? They were just Amber's cast-offs. I smiled, said nothing, and walked out of the mall alone. Behind me, the two of them kept bickering. Neither of them ran after me. That night, Dylan didn't come home. Having no key, I called a locksmith to break the lock and replace it before I could step inside. I packed my belongings into a single medium-sized suitcase. As I pushed open the door to leave, I turned to take one last look at the apartment I had lived in for six years. I thought I would be flooded with memories of us. But when my eyes fell on the light gray couch I had personally picked out, the first memory that surfaced wasn't watching movies nestled beside Dylan—it was him and Amber lounging on it in their pajamas, playing party games. When I looked at the master bedroom walls I had spent hours painting myself, I didn't think of our intimacy. I thought of the jarring daybed sitting right next to our king mattress. It was only now that I realized: the traces of "my" existence in this home were already so terribly few. At three in the morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Amber. [Naomi, how could you just walk off like that? You were totally in the wrong today, but because I'm your best friend, I begged Dylan for hours on your behalf.] [He finally caved. He said if you come over right now and kneel on the keyboard for three hours, he'll forgive you.] [I had to use all my charm to get him to agree, so you better appreciate it! Get over here quick, everyone's here.] Immediately following was a short video set in a loud VIP lounge at a club. In the video, Dylan looked drunk, slumping bonelessly against Amber. Amber was playfully pinching his ear, smiling brilliantly at the camera. In the background, Dylan's friends were shouting and cheering: "Come on, sister-in-law! We've got the keyboard ready for you!" "We all stood up for you, come soothe Bro Dylan! Everyone's here, we won't make you stay down for too long this time!" I stared at the screen for a long time. Their voices blared through the speaker, wildly energetic, like news from a completely different universe. I let out a soft laugh and typed out my reply. [Soothe my ass.] [Tell him we're done.]