My thumb scrolls mechanically through the evidence, each swipe another nail in the coffin of my three-year relationship.
Tyler's tagged at "Shots Bar & Grill"—timestamp: half an hour ago while I was standing at my own birthday party like a goddamn fool. Megan's story shows his BMW in the parking lot because of course she documented his car like some kind of trophy.
The comments are nuclear-level devastating.
"Bro finally upgraded" and laughing emoji in tears.
"About time! Megan's been waiting forever lmao"
"Thought this was supposed to be secret" along with a skull face.
Everyone knew. Every single person in his office, probably half our mutual friends, definitely his entire social circle. Everyone except the pathetic girlfriend making excuses and defending him at dinner parties.
I'm the girl who said "Tyler's just focused on his career" while he was apparently focused on getting between his coworker's legs.
"Ava, honey, maybe we should go inside," Sarah suggests gently, like I'm a wounded animal that might bolt.
"No." My voice sounds weird—detached and clinical, like I'm narrating someone else's breakdown. "I need to do this."
I dial his number with fingers that should be shaking but aren't. The party music fades to background noise as I wait, counting rings like rosary beads.
He answers on the third ring, and I can hear it all. Bar chatter, Megan's distinctive laugh that used to annoy me since high school in a harmless way and now makes me want to commit murder, clinking glasses celebrating my humiliation.
"Hey babe, sorry I'm running late—"
"I know where you are." My voice cuts through his lie like a surgical blade. "I know who you're with and what you're doing."
Silence stretches like a taut wire. I can literally hear him calculating, his mediocre brain spinning through lies like a broken slot machine.
"Ava, it's not what it looks like. Baby, listen, I can explain—"
“Don't bother. We’re done.” I hang up. The finality of it feels like jumping off a cliff—terrifying and liberating all at once.
My fingers move without conscious thought. Delete contact.
Block on Instagram. Block on Facebook. Block on TikTok, Twitter, even fucking LinkedIn. Each tap is deliberate, surgical. The digital execution of Tyler Murphy from my existence.
My friends stand in a protective semicircle around me, witnesses to the death of my longest relationship. Someone's crying—might be me, might be Sarah, might be both of us.
"Good fucking riddance," Chloe mutters viciously.
That voice makes me turn. Tobias stands a few feet away looking like he wants to hit something, preferably his own son. The pure disappointment mixed with genuine anger, makes my chest tighten.
"I heard what happened. I'm so sorry."
"Don't apologize for him." The words come out sharper than intended, but I'm beyond caring about tone.
"I'm not." He steps closer, pulling something from his pocket—an actual cloth handkerchief. "I'm apologizing for failing as a father. For raising someone capable of this level of cruelty. My son's behavior is inexcusable."
I take the handkerchief, and our fingers brush. Even through my humiliation, that touch sends electricity up my arm. "Who even carries these anymore?"
"Men who were raised to treat women with respect." His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping like he's literally biting back violence. "Unlike my son, apparently. This reflects on me, and I'm mortified."
Before I can respond Chloe barrels like an avenging angel. "That fucking waste of oxygen! I'll kill him! I'll drive to that bar right now and castrate him with my car keys!"
"Language, young lady," Tobias said calmly and that stopped her, making her really seeing me for the first time.
My smeared mascara, shell-shocked expression, the way I'm clutching her father's handkerchief like a lifeline. Something shifts in her face, determination replacing murderous rage.
"No. You know what? Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. It's still your birthday, and we're not letting that pathetic excuse for a human ruin this."
She grabs my hand with fierce protectiveness. "Come on. We're dancing until you forget his stupid face exists."
"Chloe, I don't think I can—"
"Non-negotiable. Dad, get us more champagne. The expensive stuff from your private stash."
"I don't think more alcohol is advisable…" Tobias starts.
"Dad. Champagne. Now."
She drags me toward the makeshift dance floor where the bass is loud enough to shake internal organs.
At first, I'm wooden, going through the motions while my brain processes the fact that my boyfriend of three years just nuked our relationship via Instagram story. But then Chloe starts doing increasingly ridiculous dance moves and despite everything, I crack a smile.
"There she is!" Chloe shouts over the music. "That's my girl!"
Tobias appears with an entire bottle of champagne and two glasses. His eyes meet mine as he pours, and something passes between us—concern mixed with that ever-present electricity that shouldn't exist between us.
Chloe grabs both glasses, shoving one at me, and takes a toast. "To being young, hot, and free of fuckboys!"
We drink straight from the bottle after the glasses are empty, passing it between us as we dance.
The champagne makes everything fuzzy at the edges, softening the humiliation into something manageable. More friends join us, creating a protective circle of feminine rage and solidarity.
"You know what we should do?" Chloe's eyes gleam dangerously. "Pool. Fully clothed. Right now."
"That's insane," I protest, but I'm already laughing.
"That's the point!"
She doesn't wait for agreement, just grabs my hand and runs toward the pool. We hit the water in a tangle of limbs and dresses, the chlorine mixing with champagne and tears I didn't realize I was crying.
When I surface, gasping and laughing like a maniac, I catch Tobias watching from the deck.
His expression is unreadable—concern, affection, and something darker, hungrier, as his eyes track the way my soaked dress clings to every curve.
The rational part of my brain notes that I should feel self-conscious.
The part that's been suppressed for years while I played the perfect girlfriend just enjoys being seen.
We swim, we drink, we dance in the pool like beautiful disasters. At some point, I realize I'm actually having fun despite the emotional carnage. Tyler feels distant, irrelevant, like a bad dream I'm finally waking up from.
But later, after we've toweled off and the party has mellowed into quiet conversations, reality creeps back in. I find myself alone in the garden, and the tears come properly then.
Ugly, body-shaking sobs that three years of wasted time deserve.
"Oh, honey." Chloe appears with a blanket, wrapping us both like we're children. "Let it all out."
"I'm such a fucking idiot," I hiccup between sobs. "Three years, Chloe. Three years of my life down the drain because I was too stupid to see what everyone else knew."
"You're not stupid. You're loyal. There's a difference." She rubs my back in soothing circles. "And I hate being right about this, but I told you from day one that Tyler was emotional garbage wrapped in decent abs."
"I know." My voice cracks. "I just thought if I loved him enough, if I was understanding enough, patient enough…"
"You can't love someone into being worthy of you." She squeezes tighter. "Trust me, I've been watching Tyler disappoint people since we shared a womb. Even in utero, he was a selfish little shit hogging all the space and kicking me in the face."
That startles a laugh out of me.
"I'm serious! Mom said he was always kicking me. Probably trying to establish dominance or some shit."
She pulls back far enough to look at me.
"You deserve someone who sees how incredible you are. Someone who is obsessed with you, who puts you first. Someone who would never…" She gestures vaguely. "This. All this bullshit."
We sat in a peaceful silence for a while and I pulled the blanket tighter, staring at the pool's surface, trying not to think about how Tobias's eyes looked when he saw me in my soaked dress.
About his expression that makes my breath catch. Protectiveness mixed with barely controlled anger and something else. Something that makes heat pool in my stomach despite everything.
I don't trust myself to respond to my best friend. If I open my mouth, I might say something I can't take back.
Like how the wrong Murphy has always held my heart.