ANYA
I search Toria’s face for clues that she’s joking. A waiter weaves between tables, the aroma of baked pastries trailing in his wake. But I’m barely aware of any of it. Her words keep ringing in my ears: I’d have to pay for my plane ticket to her “destination” wedding.
“You’re hilarious,” I say, forcing a small laugh to mask the rising panic in my chest. My fingers curl tightly around the table’s edge, the wood smooth but unyielding beneath my grip.
“No, I’m serious,” Toria says, her tone flat but firm. She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs with a casual elegance that only amplifies my discomfort. “If you want to attend the wedding, you’ll have to come on your dime. It’s the least you could do for me, don’t you think?”
A tremor shoots through my feet, a familiar, involuntary response to situations like this. My body has always betrayed me in moments of stress, and now it is no different.
“But…” I trail off, my words faltering as I study her. Something feels off. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there—in her body language, her tone, the way her eyes linger on me a moment too long.
“Is… is everything okay?” I ask, my voice uneven. I force a nervous smile and glance around the café, pretending to look for hidden cameras. “You’re pranking me, right?”
She laughs, a short, dismissive sound that prickles my skin.
“So dramatic, Anya,” she says, shaking her head as she reaches for the debit card lying between us. She slips it into her purse with deliberate ease, as though she’s closing a chapter I’m no longer part of.
“No now, be serious. In fact, I need to meet this mystery man because I don’t think he is real.” My voice rising slightly in desperation. “Can I at least see a photo?”
Something is happening, and I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I know things are shifting. With her. With us.
This time, she obliges. Pulling out her phone, she swipes through her gallery with perfectly manicured fingers, the soft click of her nails against the screen grating on my nerves. She slides the phone across to me.
I pick it up. In the photo, Toria sits beside a man on a sleek white boat, their side profiles turned toward the endless blue of the sea. The sunlight glints off the water, casting a golden halo around them. His hand rests on her waist, possessive yet casual, while her hair cascades down her back in perfect waves.
The picture looks like something out of a luxury magazine. Toria’s poise, the composition—it’s maddeningly perfect.
Envy claws at my guts. This is real.
“Beautiful,” I say, a bitter taste on my tongue. “But this one I can’t see his face in this one, is he married?”
Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and unforgiving. She holds out her hand for the phone.
“That’s disgusting, to even suggest that,” she says, her voice cold.
“I was joking,” I backtrack. “So where was that picture taken? It’s stunning.”
“Switzerland,” she says.
Her response is so nonchalant that I feel hatred burn through me. Switzerland. Switzerland. She travelled to Switzerland with her boyfriend and she didn’t tell me? How did all this happen under my nose and I was oblivious?
“Nice,” I say, plastering a smile onto my face, though it feels like my features might crack under the strain. “So, am I your maid of honor? Is the wedding destination Switzerland?”
I need to infiltrate this wedding party somehow. If she makes me her maid of honour, then I can influence things from within. It’s not too late to get my girl back. And of course, she doesn’t mean this nonsense about me sponsoring myself to the wedding. That’s not how things work between us.
“Well, nothing is cast in stone yet.”
“But I’m your best friend! Being your maid of honour should be cast in stone, haba.”
“Best friend,’ Toria repeats with a dry laugh.
Her laughter cuts deeper than I expect. Before I can respond, she pulls out a small velvet pouch and places it on the table between us. The material catches the light, hinting at something heavy and precious inside.
“What’s that?” I ask, eyeing it warily.
“Open it,” she says, her voice unreadable.
I reach for the pouch, the soft fabric cool against my fingertips. As I nudge it open, my breath catches in my throat.
Inside is something I can’t immediately comprehend. My blood freezes as the realization dawns.
And then it all makes sense.
“Toria, I…”
TORIA
I wish I could take out my phone and capture the look on Anya’s face as she opens the pouch and sees what’s inside. Her expression shifts in slow motion—her brows furrowing, her lips parting slightly in confusion before twisting into something closer to shock.
Inside the pouch is the debit card I’d been missing for months. The sight of it sends a wave of vindication through me, but it’s mixed with a deep, gnawing anger.
Turns out, stealing my boyfriends wasn’t enough for Anya. She had to steal from me too.
The café suddenly feels louder, the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation buzzing in my ears as I watch her. The card sits there like a glaring accusation, its edges worn from use, though I haven’t held it in ages. I’d complained about it to her so many times—wondered aloud where it could have gone. She had listened, nodding along sympathetically, even offering suggestions of places I might have misplaced it.
The card wasn’t even tied to a major account. It was one I used for small online purchases, so it didn’t hold much money. I’d only realized it was missing when I tried to buy an Italian leather bag online a few months ago. I’d torn my apartment apart looking for it, only to give up in frustration.
At first, I thought it was a random case of credit card fraud. The email linked to the card wasn’t one I checked often, so by the time I noticed a series of small, suspicious purchases, it was too late. Even then, the idea that Anya might be behind it never crossed my mind. She’d seemed so supportive when I vented about it, reassuring me it could happen to anyone.
I’d immediately called the bank, reported the card as stolen, and had it blocked. I moved on, chalking it up to bad luck. But that changed when I stumbled across the card buried at the bottom of Anya’s box in the room she stayed in at my apartment.
It had been London’s idea to go through her things. “Someone who’s willing to sabotage your relationships might be capable of even more,” he’d said. At first, I dismissed the suggestion—it felt invasive, beneath me. But the seed had been planted.
Two weeks ago, I finally acted on it. I booked a spa day for Anya and me—one of those extravagant, full-day treatments she loved. The morning of the appointment, I faked a bad stomach ache, clutching my stomach dramatically as I leaned against the bathroom door. “You go without me,” I told her, my voice weak and wavering. “Enjoy it for both of us.”
She hesitated for a moment, torn between concern and the lure of luxury. Ultimately, the allure of a full day of pampering won out. Once she left, I wasted no time.
The air in the apartment was still as I stood in her room, the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and expensive—lingering in the air. My hands trembled slightly as I opened her closet, rifling through boxes and drawers, my breath hitching every time I heard a creak or imagined her key turning in the lock.
And there it was. My debit card, tucked away beneath a pile of scarves in the far corner of a box. My heart pounded as I stared at it, anger and disbelief swirling together. How long had she been using me? How many of the purchases I’d brushed off as fraud had been her indulging her whims?
Now, as I watch her at the café, holding that very card in her hand, the pieces finally fall into place. The lies, the manipulation, the ease with which she crossed boundaries—it all makes sense.
Anya looks up at me, her face pale and her jaw tight. The air between us feels charged, the tension stretching thin but taut, like a wire about to snap.
The second item that spills out of the bag is a thumb-sized flash drive. It was in the same place as the debit card, wrapped in soft tissue paper. My hands hovered above it, hesitating. I didn’t want to look, but something about the way it was hidden in Anya’s box told me it held more than random files.
The room felt suffocating with the faint mustiness of a space lived in too long by someone who didn’t belong. I’d never liked being in that room, the room I graciously let her move into two years ago, but that day, every second I spent there made my skin crawl.
This wasn’t me. Snooping, prying—it was beneath me. But I knew it had to be done. Anya had a way of twisting the truth until I doubted my own reality. I needed enough evidence to confront her without her gaslighting me into thinking I was crazy.
The thumb drive felt cool and smooth in my hand, deceptively innocent. Plugging it into my laptop is simple enough, and within seconds, the screen lit up with its contents. One file immediately caught my attention: a folder labeled Henry. My chest tightened. I could already guess what it contained, but when I clicked on it, the confirmation still punched me in the gut.
The video played for only a few seconds before I gagged, slamming the spacebar to pause it. My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. Anya hadn’t been bluffing about the sex tape she made with Henry. She’d recorded it, saved it, and kept it hidden like some sick trophy.
I couldn’t watch any more. My fingers trembled as I copied the file onto my laptop. The thought of Anya using this as leverage made me sick. I deleted it from the drive, my jaw tightening as the progress bar completed. The only reason she kept this was to have power over Henry. Whatever purpose it served, it wasn’t good, and I wasn’t going to let her keep it.
My skin prickled, and a chill ran through me despite the warmth of the room. What had I let into my life? Who was this girl I’d thought I was helping?
My laptop’s screen glowed faintly in the dim room, the only witness to my disgust. At the last moment, I decided to keep the flash drive itself. As I held it in my hand, I knew one thing for certain: I was done.
Anya had to go.
ANYA
It’s cliche, but the first thing I think to say is: “I can explain.”
But for the first time, I am short of words. My face drains of blood and the words dry up in my mouth. For the first time I see myself like Toria must see me.
The debit card had been an impulsive thing. She had left it out there next to her laptop and at first I’d picked it up to give it to her, but it had felt good, the hard edges of the card sitting in my palm like it belonged there. Then I’d slipped it into my pocket, promising to return it to her in a few days.
A few days later, when she’d been looking for it frantically, I wasn’t sure how to give it to her. How was I going to explain why I had taken it in the first place? Was she going to believe me? And so, I let the moment pass and held on to the card. And then an opportunity came up – a small online purchase, something trivial. I wasn’t even sure the card would work—it had been days, maybe she’d blocked it. But when the payment went through, something shifted. She hadn’t blocked it. She hadn’t even noticed.
After that, I stopped caring. Toria could afford it. She wouldn’t miss the money. What was a small card compared to the wealth she had at her disposal?
But even if I could explain the card away, how could I explain the thumb drive?
The truth was, I’d been careless. Keeping it in the apartment was stupid, but I’d never imagined Toria would go through my things. She wasn’t like that—or so I’d thought.
“Go ahead, explain,” Toria says now, her voice cold and clipped, she gestures with her chin.
“Why…why did you go through my things?” I stammer, trying to sound indignant. Maybe the only way to salvage this is to go on the defensive. “That’s invasion of privacy.”
“You must be mad,” Toria laughs. “To think you have any leg to stand on right now.”
I fall silent.
“No, let’s talk about ‘privacy’’ Toria makes exaggerated air quotes. “Did you care about my privacy when you seduced and slept with a man I was dating, and made a tape?”
Her poise unnerves me. If our roles were reversed, I’d be screaming, and throwing things. But Toria remains collected, and elegant even in her anger. It makes me hate her more, even as shame gnaws at me.
“Think about it,” I say, in a trembling voice. “If he was easily seduced, then maybe he wasn’t good enough for you.”
Toria laughs again, “is that what you tell yourself?”
“It’s the truth,” I shrug, trying to mask how shaken I feel. “Besides, if you didn’t want to know, you shouldn’t have gone through my things.”
I’m testing her, pushing her, hoping to break her composure. A small part of me wants her to lose control, to descend to my level. But another part of me—darker, desperate—wants to return to her good graces. I need her.
“Look, I’m sorry about Henry,” I say, softening my tone. “I just wanted to show you he wasn’t who he said he was.”
“And what about Samuel?”
I blanch, “what about him?”
“I know everything, Anya,” she breathes. “I know you are behind that Facebook page. Really, how stupid can you be to not erase evidence of your evil?”
I’m shaking now. I’d thought I could spin Henry into a one-off mistake, but if she knows about Samuel, then there’s no coming back from this.
“I’m sorry,” I let tears pool in my eyes. “I’m sorry, Toria. I don’t know what came over me. It’s like…I just…I love you so much, I didn’t want to share you with anyone.”
She stands, her movements deliberate, and takes out an envelope from her purse. She places it on the table in front of me.
“Well, guess what,” she says, her tone icy. “You won’t have to.”
And then she walks away.
I want to run after her, to drop to my knees and beg her forgiveness. But I don’t. I remain glued to my seat, paralyzed by the weight of who I am. For the first time, I see myself clearly, and I don’t like the person staring back at me. But what can I do? I’m nearly thirty, and I don’t think I can change. I don’t even know who I am without Toria.
My eyes land on the envelope she left behind. With trembling hands, I tear it open and find crisp hundred-dollar bills inside. The faint scent of ink and paper wafts up as I count them—one, two, three, four, five.
Tears streak down my face as realization dawns. Even now, even as she leaves me behind, she’s still trying to help me.
I don’t deserve her. I never did.
TORIA
I sit in my car and cry, the sobs coming in waves that I can’t control. The car’s interior feels stifling, the leather seats are sticky against my skin, and the faint scent of air freshener—vanilla, Anya’s favorite—turns my stomach. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white, as though holding on to something solid might anchor me.
I couldn’t stay another second in the café with her. I couldn’t let her see me break down. She didn’t deserve that satisfaction. But now, sitting here alone, the tears won’t stop.
I don’t know why this feels so heavy. I should feel lighter, shouldn’t I? I’ve walked away from someone who has consistently undermined my happiness, someone who has taken far more than she ever gave. This should be a victory.
But it isn’t.
Anya has been my only friend for the past five years. Yes, she had ulterior motives, and yes, she hurt me, but there were good times too. Memories of laughter, of shared secrets and late-night talks, play on a loop in my mind. There were moments when we were real, when we were truly friends—or so I have to believe.
I need to believe it. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll never heal.
The weight of it all presses down on me, like a heavy blanket I can’t throw off. I lean back in my seat, staring blankly through the windshield. The street outside is bustling with life, but the sounds feel distant, muffled, as though I’m underwater. The honk of a passing car, the chatter of people on the sidewalk—they barely register.
I don’t know how long I sit there, mourning not just the friendship I’ve lost, but the person I used to be. Anya has changed me and reshaped the way I see the world. I know now that I’ll never fall into a friendship so easily again. I might never trust anyone so completely again. And that thought terrifies me.
The buzz of my phone breaks through my thoughts. I fumble for it, my fingers trembling, and glance at the screen.
It’s London.
“Hey baby,” he says.
I try to speak, but the lump in my throat won’t let the words out. I’m still choked up with tears.
“Babe, you okay?” he asks, his voice tinged with concern.
“It’s done,” I whisper, the words barely audible. They feel like they’re being pulled from the depths of my soul. “It’s done, and my heart is breaking.”
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Ademola Adetokunbo, parked outside the cafe.”
“I’ll be right there,” he says without hesitation.
“Thank you,” I say.
I lower the phone, staring at it in my lap. For the first time in what feels like forever, a small glimmer of comfort breaks through the heaviness. London is coming. I’m not entirely alone.
I close my eyes, letting my head rest against the steering wheel. The tears keep falling, but they’re softer now, quieter. The sound of the city hums in the background, a reminder that life goes on, even when it feels like your world has stopped.
