My boyfriend made me wait alone for 4 hours at a fancy restaurant on our anniversary. when he finally showed up with his friends, he joked, “see? told you she’d still be here.” they all laughed. we’d been together 3 years, and i had just paid off his car loan. i smiled, ordered another drink, and left. this morning, he’s called me 25 times. His things are now in bags—at the dump…
The second hand of the Cartier watch on my wrist ticked slowly, heavy as the footsteps of death. It was 8:45 p.m. I had been sitting at table number 4, the best spot in Le Monde restaurant – overlooking the brightly lit Tower of Willis – for two hours and fifteen minutes.
The waiter, a young man named Henri with a thick French accent, had poured me water for the fourth time. He said nothing, but his concerned eyes screamed pity: “Miss, he won’t be coming.”
Today was the third anniversary of my relationship with Brad.
I, Elena, 29, the Vice President of Finance at a technology company in The Loop. I wore the backless black silk dress Brad had once complimented, and my makeup was meticulously done. On the table was a small velvet-wrapped gift box: the keys to the Porsche Macan Brad was driving. This afternoon, I just transferred $45,000 to pay off his entire car loan. I wanted to surprise him. I wanted him to be free from debt worries.
My phone was silent. No texts. No calls.
9 p.m.
The heavy oak doors of the restaurant swung open. A cold wind from Lake Michigan swept in, carrying the boisterous laughter that shattered the quiet, elegant atmosphere.
It was Brad.
But he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t carrying roses either.
With him were Jason, Mike, and Tyler – the noisy trio from college whom I’d never liked. They were in jeans and bomber jackets, looking completely out of place amidst the suits and evening gowns at Le Monde.
Brad saw me. He showed no remorse. Instead, a triumphant smile spread across his face. He turned to his friends, pointing at me – the woman who had waited for him for over two hours like an idiot.
“See?” Brad shouted, his voice booming without any restraint. “I told you. She’ll still be here. I win. Each of you cough up $200, hurry up!”
The group burst into laughter. Jason patted Brad on the shoulder: “Well done, buddy. I thought she’d left by 8 o’clock. You’ve trained her well.”
My blood froze.
It turned out my waiting, my anxiety, my three-year relationship… were just collateral for a cheap $600 bet between these men.
Brad leaned closer, bent down, and kissed my cheek – a kiss reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. “Sorry, babe, we got stuck in traffic. But you know I love you, right? You’re the most patient person in the world.”
He winked at his friends who were pulling up chairs to sit at our table – a romantic table for two.
“Come on, Henri!” Brad snapped his fingers, calling the waiter. “Bring the menu. I won the bet today, I’m treating you guys to the finest red wine!”
I looked at Brad. The handsome face I once adored now looked distorted. I remembered the times I stayed up late working overtime to pay the rent for the luxury apartment we shared (because he always claimed to be short on startup capital). I remembered the $45,000 this afternoon.
A strange calm enveloped me. No tears. No rage. Only the cold calculation of a financial expert seeing a losing investment that needed immediate cut.
“Honey,” I smiled, a smile so sweet Brad didn’t notice the blade within. “I’ve already ordered a drink. But I want another one.”
“Go ahead, honey,” Brad chuckled, busy high-fiving Tyler.
I turned to Henri, who stood stiffly, angry on my behalf. “Henri, give me a Macallan 1926. Charge it to my card.”
Brad froze. He knew the price of that liquor. But he was trying to impress his friends.
I drained the glass of strong liquor in one gulp. The pungent taste burned through my nose, scorching away my last vestiges of weakness.
“I’m going to the restroom,” I said, grabbing my bag.
“Hurry up, we’re about to order,” Brad said, his eyes glued to the menu.
I walked past them. I didn’t go to the restroom. I went straight to the front door, nodded to Henri, and slipped him a $100 tip.
I stepped out onto the cold Chicago streets. I didn’t take an Uber back to the apartment. I took a taxi to The Peninsula Hotel.
On the way, I opened my phone. Not to call Brad.
But to call “Big Tony’s 24/7 Trash Removal Service” and a friend who works in the car transport industry.
The next morning. 9 o’clock.
I was enjoying breakfast at the hotel, sipping a hot cup of Earl Grey tea. My phone was on the table, the screen constantly lit but silent.
Brad (78 missed calls).
Brad (15 voicemails).
Brad (42 iMessages).
I opened the most recent message.
“WHERE ARE YOU? WHY WAS THE LOCK ON THE APARTMENT CHANGED?”
“ELENA! WHERE ARE ALL MY BELONGINGS?”
“ARE YOU CRAZY? ANSWER THE PHONE!”
I smiled and pressed the redial button.
Brad answered immediately after the first ring.
“ELENA! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” His yell made me hold the phone away from my ear. “I got home at 2 a.m. and the lock won’t open! The building security said I’m no longer on the resident list! Are you kidding me?”
“Good morning, Brad,” I said, my voice calm.
“Did you pay for dinner last night? I hope you have enough money for that bottle of wine.”
“Don’t talk about dinner! Where are my things? My clothes, my game console, my Jordan shoe collection?”
“Ah,” I gently stirred my tea. “Remember Big Tony? That garbage disposal service? They’re very efficient. I packed everything into black bags at 11 last night. Right now… I think they’re at the city landfill, the municipal waste disposal area. If you’re quick, you might still find the PS5 before the shredder starts.”
“YOU’RE CRAZY! I’LL SUE YOU! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT…”
“I do, Brad,” I interrupted. “That apartment is in my name. The lease agreement is only in my name. You haven’t paid a single cent of rent in the last three years. Legally, you’re just an overstaying guest. And I’ve terminated your guest status.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, only the sound of heavy breathing.
“Okay… okay, Elena. You’re angry. I understand. Last night’s joke went a little too far. I’m sorry, alright? Now tell me where my car is? I can’t find it in the parking lot.”
Here it was. The moment I’d been waiting for.
“Your car?” I asked again, feigning surprise. “You mean the Porsche Macan?”
“Yes! Don’t tell me you threw it in the trash too! My spare key is in the drawer!”
“Brad,” I said, my voice turning cold. “Do you remember yesterday afternoon when I asked you to sign a document? You were busy playing games and signed it without reading it. You said, ‘You’re a finance person, you handle the insurance paperwork.'”
“So what?” Brad’s voice began to tremble.
“It wasn’t insurance papers. It was a Transfer of Ownership document. And a power of attorney giving me full authority to handle the property.”
“What… what?”
“And about the car loan,” I continued. “It’s true I paid off the $45,000 yesterday afternoon. But I didn’t pay it in your name. I bought the debt from the bank and immediately transferred the property to my name because I was the only co-signer with the ability to pay.”
I paused for a moment to let him process it.
“That car is mine now, Brad. Completely legally. And because I didn’t like seeing it anymore… I sold it.”
“YOU SOLD IT? WHEN?” he yelled in despair.
“This morning. At 6 o’clock. To a used car dealership in the suburbs for a pittance. The money from the sale is enough to cover the three years of rent you owe me. We’re even.”
“NO! IT’S IMPOSSIBLE! YOU’RE A DEVIL!”
“Oh, and one more thing,” I said, admiring my newly manicured nails. “The velvet box I left on the table last night? Did you open it?”
Silence.
“That’s not your car keys. It’s the bill for your $5,000 gambling debt that you hid from me last month. I was going to pay it for you. But last night, I tore it up. And I conveniently sent your current address (your parents’ house, I guess you’ll go there crying) to the creditors.”
“Elena… please…” His voice broke, turning to a plea. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. Don’t do that. I love you…”
“You don’t love me, Brad. You love my wallet and my patience. But last night, you gambled that patience for $200.”
I stood up, picking up my bag.
“You won the bet, Brad. You’re right. I was there waiting for you. But that’s the last time. Good luck to the garbage dump.”
I hung up.
Blocked the number.
I stepped out of the hotel, into the cool Chicago breeze. Cold, but fresh. I took a deep breath. No more burdens. No more lies. No more cheap bets.
I hailed a taxi.
“Where are you going?” the driver asked.
“To the Porsche showroom,” I smiled. “I need to buy a new car. For myself.”
