The Invisible Girlfriend

1 To keep the campus queen from feeling threatened, my three childhood friends made a collective demand: for the duration of our trip, I had to be nothing more than my boyfriend’s bro. "Come on, the five of us grew up together," Zach had reasoned, leaning against the kitchen counter with an easy, dismissive shrug. "You and Beckett are the only ones who crossed the line and ruined the dynamic. What if Vanessa thinks the rest of us are into you, too?" "Please, Hannah," Rowan had begged, his hands clasped together in mock prayer. "Just play along. For us." And Beckett—my boyfriend of five years, the boy who had held my hand in movie theaters before our palms ever learned to sweat—had agreed without a second thought. "It makes sense," he’d said, not even looking at me. "We're a package deal. We can't let things get weird." So I played the part. I threw myself into the role with an earnestness that bordered on self-destruction. During our spring camping trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains, while the boys angled their phones to catch Vanessa in the golden hour, laughing as the wind caught her hair, I was sent up the ridge alone to gather dry firewood. The trail was slick with wet pine needles. My boot caught on an exposed root, and I tumbled twenty feet down a rocky ravine. It took three months of physical therapy before my knee stopped throbbing in the rain. When we took group photos at the botanical gardens, they pulled the makeup artist aside and quietly asked her to tone me down so Vanessa wouldn't have to compete. When the prints arrived, I stood at the far edge of the frame, washed out in harsh light, a muddy mustard eyeshadow smeared across my lids like a bruise nobody cared to explain. Now, we were on Nantucket for a long weekend. The three boys had made a pact: they would all confess their feelings to Vanessa on the exact same day. The deal was simple. Whoever she picked got to date her; the other two promised to swallow their pride and remain brothers for life. I thought this suffocating pantomime was finally reaching its final act. I stood on the windswept dunes, watching the three of them lay their hearts at her feet against the gray ocean backdrop. But Vanessa didn't give them an answer. She lingered, her manicured fingers twisting a strand of soft blonde hair, her gaze drifting past them until it landed squarely on Beckett. Perhaps it was time for me to take my final bow. Vanessa looked at him, her hazel eyes glistening with rehearsed vulnerability. "Beckett," she murmured softly. "The one I actually want is you. Will you be with me?" Beckett’s eyes flickered to mine for less than a second before sliding away toward the rolling tide. "Vanessa, I don't want to turn you down," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, gentle cadence he used when he wanted to sound magnanimous. "It’s just... a confession isn't something a girl should have to do first." He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no. Vanessa blinked, her lips curving into a slow, satisfied smile. "All right. Then I'll be waiting for you." A dull, ringing shock expanded behind my ribs. We had known each other for twenty years. We had been lovers for five. When our SAT scores came back and mine were lower than expected, Beckett intentionally turned down Vanderbilt just so he could enroll at the same state school as me, insisting that four years without seeing my face every morning wasn't a life worth living. In the brutal chill of our first shared winter, when my eczema flared and my cheeks cracked raw from the wind, he spent twenty minutes every night carefully slicing fresh aloe leaves, smoothing the cool gel over my skin until the burning stopped. I had expected him to look Vanessa in the eye and say, I'm sorry. I have a girlfriend. How foolish of me. I had forgotten that in the sacred hierarchy of Beckett Hayes, the boys' approval reigned supreme. How could he ever humiliate Vanessa when the whole fraternity of his childhood was watching? I parted my lips to speak, but Zach caught my forearm, his grip firm and warning. "Hannah, don't blow this," Zach hissed under his breath. "Beckett’s just smoothing things over. If he doesn't bring you up, it proves our circle is completely platonic." Foster leaned in from the other side, his voice a low drone. "He didn't say yes, did he? Stop being so dramatic." Rowan looked at me with open desperation. "Think about our happiness for once, Hannah. We’ve been chasing her for six months. Don't ruin it right at the finish line." I opened my mouth, then closed it. The salt air felt cold and metallic on my tongue. A year ago, I would have fought. I would have demanded answers, pulled Beckett aside by his collar, and made him look at me. But standing there on that cold beach, listening to their low, frantic justifications, I felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle into my marrow. I was so tired of playing the bro. Beckett jogged back over to us, hands shoved into the pockets of his fleece, his breath pluming white. "What are you guys whispering about? The acoustic set at the harbor pavilion starts in twenty minutes." Zach pulled out his phone. "Shit, almost forgot. Let me grab the mobile passes. Vanessa’s been dying to see this indie band." He tapped the screen, then paused, looking up at me with an awkward grimace. "Uh, guys? There’s only five tickets left in the general admission section." Vanessa pouted, her lower lip trembling with practiced disappointment. "No way... I've been looking forward to this all summer. You guys promised you’d come with me." Foster immediately jumped in to soothe her. "Don't worry, princess. There isn't a problem we can't solve." Rowan cast a sideways glance at me. "Honestly, Hannah has never cared about folk music anyway. She’s too much of a tomboy to sit through an acoustic set. She’d probably rather chill at the cottage." I looked Rowan straight in the eye. "Actually, I really wanted to go." The truth was, that intimate seaside concert was the only reason I had agreed to pack a bag and come on this miserable trip in the first place. Zach laughed, a dry, dismissive bark. "Come on, Han. You don't know the first thing about this scene. You’d just be wasting a seat." Beckett was the one who drove the final nail. "The five of us will go," Beckett said, his tone brisk and managerial. "Hannah doesn't mind. Go find something fun in town, Han." As the group began walking toward the boardwalk, Beckett lingered behind for a heartbeat. He reached out and tapped the bridge of my nose, an old habit from high school that now felt like an insult. "Don't be mad," he whispered. "We'll go to plenty of shows later, just the two of us. The guys swore that if this works out, they're taking us to that steakhouse in Back Bay. Text me when you're back at the house, okay?" I turned my face away from his hand. "Whatever, Beckett. Don't let me interrupt your performance." Down the path, Vanessa’s voice floated back, singing out his name. Beckett didn't even notice the hollow bite in my tone. He turned on his heel and jogged toward her laughter without looking back. I walked the two miles back to our rental alone, the wind whipping sand against my bare ankles. Sitting on the edge of the unmade twin bed, I opened Instagram. Within an hour, five identical stories lit up my feed. A video from the front row, the harbor lights blurring behind the stage. The caption on all of them read: Real music with the best people. Under Zach’s post, a mutual friend from college had already commented: Look at the crew back together. Wait, where’s Hannah? Foster had replied within minutes: Her? You think Hannah knows good music? Don't insult the band. On Vanessa’s story, she had tagged Beckett right over the vocalist’s head, accompanied by a small, discreet white heart. 2 Someone had commented on Vanessa's photo: Did Hayes finally bag the girl? Vanessa had replied: Stop it 🙈 The friend shot back: Hey, nobody can resist Vanessa Taylor for long. Only a matter of time. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from Beckett: We're heading over to the late-night oyster bar on the wharf. Vanessa wants you to come out. Rowan’s buying. I shut off the screen and left the phone face-down on the wooden table. Beckett knew better than anyone that raw shellfish late at night ruined my stomach. After my appendix surgery three years ago, anything heavy past nine in the evening gave me violent cramps and feverish chills. He used to keep peppermint tea and heating pads in his glove compartment just in case. Now, caught up in the warmth of the boys' camaraderie and Vanessa's bright, shining approval, he had cleanly excised that detail from his memory. The next morning, the bedroom door rattled under a series of aggressive, heavy knocks. My heart jumped into my throat. Terrified that something had happened, I didn't even bother pulling my hair back or fixing my rumpled sleep shirt before tearing the door open. All five of them stood in the narrow hallway. Beckett’s brow was drawn in an irritated knot. "Why didn't you answer your texts? We spent half the night wondering where the hell you were." Zach rolled his eyes, leaning against the doorframe. "Vanessa was worried sick about you. We walked all the way across town to check on you." Vanessa stepped forward, her eyes rimmed with theatrical moisture. "I'm so sorry, Hannah... did we wake you? I feel terrible if I ruined your night." Foster crossed his arms. "Seriously, Han, what was that yesterday? You used to be cool. You never used to pull this petty, girlie silent-treatment crap." Rowan held out a greasy paper bag containing cold, congealed fried clams. "Here. We had them bag the leftovers for you. Eat up." I didn't reach for the bag. It was barely six in the morning. A heavy haze of cheap gin, fried grease, and sweet perfume wafted off their clothes. They had clearly closed down the bars, stumbled through the streets until dawn, and only now remembered that I existed. And somehow, I was the one who had made things difficult. "No, thank you," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "I’m exhausted. I just want to be left alone." "Hannah," Vanessa said softly, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking down at her pristine white sneakers. "Is my being here making you uncomfortable? If I'm intruding, I can just leave..." Zach’s expression immediately hardened. "Cut it out, Hannah. You're supposed to be our friend. If you were really one of us, you’d be helping us take care of Vanessa instead of making her feel guilty." Vanessa glanced up, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity. "Wait... you're not one of those 'pick-me' girls the internet is always talking about, are you? The kind who hangs around groups of guys just to make other women feel unwelcome?" Foster hurried to reassure her. "No way, Vanessa, you've got it all wrong. Hannah’s basically one of the guys. We treat her worse than we treat each other." Rowan chimed in with a forced chuckle. "Exactly. As if any of us could ever look at Hannah that way." A single, delicate tear tracked down Vanessa’s cheek. She turned her gaze to Beckett. "Beckett? What about you?" Beckett looked momentarily paralyzed, caught in the beam of her undivided attention. Then he laughed—a thin, brittle sound that scraped against my eardrums. "Hannah? Man, I think I was eighteen before I even realized she was a girl." The words hung in the stale morning air, vile and suffocating. On his eighteenth birthday, Beckett hadn't thought I was a boy. He had shown up at my bedroom window in the pouring rain, soaking wet, clutching eighteen individually wrapped boxes. Hannah, he had said that night, pulling me into the warmth of his jacket, my past eighteen years were just waiting to find you. Every birthday from here on out belongs to us. I looked at him now, and all I could manage was a quiet, sad shake of my head. "I’m going back to bed," I said. "If that’s all, please get out." Zach muttered under his breath, "Unbelievable. Good luck trying to get through to her." The boys turned, annoyed that their grand gesture of cold leftovers hadn't been met with gratitude. Vanessa lingered for half a second. Her eyes drifted over my messy hair, my unwashed face, and my oversized thrift-store t-shirt. She leaned in, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper meant only for me. "Pathetic," she murmured, a smirk curving her lips. "You really think you stand a chance against me?" Then she spun around, her golden hair catching the morning light, and fell into step beside Beckett with practiced elegance. By three that afternoon, Foster had texted the group demanding we all come down to his suite for video games. When I pushed the door open, the five of them were already huddled around the TV, controllers clicking furiously in a storm of shouts. Vanessa looked up with a radiant beam. "Come on in, Hannah! The console only supports five players, but you’re up next as soon as this round ends." Rowan laughed from the couch. "Yeah! Loser has to swap out and let Hannah play." As if letting me join the game was a penalty inflicted on whoever failed. Vanessa lost the first round of Super Smash Bros. Her smile vanished instantly. She dropped the controller onto the coffee table with a hard clatter, crossing her arms and turning her shoulder to the room, radiating icy displeasure. The room’s energy plummeted. Zach cleared his throat nervously. "Hey, it's fine, Ness. Hannah’s absolute garbage at this game anyway. This match will be over in thirty seconds." The match started. It was supposed to be a free-for-all, but the four of them immediately cornered my character on the edge of the virtual platform, chaining attacks with brutal coordination. In less than twenty seconds, the screen flashed: GAME OVER. Foster threw his hands up in triumph. "See, Vanessa? Come back! We set the board for you—you’re gonna crush this round!" Rowan shook his head at me. "Honestly, Hannah, why did we even bother subbing you in? You just threw off Vanessa's rhythm." 3 Beckett didn't even look away from the television. "Hannah’s never had the hands for gaming. We don't really have hobbies in common anyway." I stared down at my hands. In our sophomore year, I had ranked eighth in the entire state in competitive Smash. Back then, they used to beg me to carry them through local tournaments so they could win store credit at the campus bookstore. Now, to stroke the ego of a girl who couldn't even execute a double jump, Beckett wiped away five years of shared history without flinching. Vanessa still wasn't satisfied. She pushed her controller away, crossing her legs on the plush rug. "I'm bored of this. You guys are all ganging up on me. Let’s play Truth or Dare instead. And nobody gets to chicken out!" She looked over at me, her eyes sparkling with malicious certainty. "Hannah? You’re in, right?" Zach answered for me before I could draw breath. "Don't bother asking. Hannah doesn't care. She’ll do whatever." I set the controller down on the wooden side table. On the muted screen, my digital avatar lay face-down in the arena. It looked remarkably like my life: twenty years of friendship, five years of devoted love, all discarded on the floor of a rented beach house. We wrote numbers on slips of paper to keep things random, drawing cards from a deck. Beckett drew first. His card read: Kiss player number 3 on the cheek. I turned my slip over. I was number 3. Vanessa’s expression instantly soured, her mouth flattening into a thin line. Foster and Rowan immediately began to hoot, though their eyes were darting nervously toward Vanessa. "Come on, Beckett! Show the world that brotherly love!" Beckett stared at the card for three long, agonizing seconds. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the wastebasket by the desk. "We're basically brothers," Beckett said, a forced sneer curling his upper lip. "Kissing each other is just weird. I forfeit." The room erupted into relieved laughter. Inside my chest, the last ember of warmth went completely cold. A quiet, terrifying clarity washed over me. This wasn't Beckett playing a tactical role to help his buddies win the girl. This wasn't an act. Love doesn't have an expiration date, but when novel excitement takes the wheel, a man’s character reveals itself in the wreckage. Vanessa leaned over, patting my knee with mock sympathy. "It's just a game, Hannah. Don't take it to heart." The triumphant gleam in her eyes was almost blinding. She reached into the bowl, drew her own dare, and unfolded the paper. Her cheeks flushed a delicate, theatrical pink. Foster leaned over the table, grinning. "What did you get? Why are you blushing?" Vanessa turned the card toward the group. Share a kiss on the lips with player number 5. Player number 5 was Beckett. Rowan slammed his hands on the table, ecstatic. "House rules, guys! No backing out this time!" The chorus rose instantly: "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" Their eyes locked across the small coffee table. In Vanessa’s gaze, there was no hesitation—only an appetite for conquest. Beckett stood up. He walked around the table, extending a hand to help Vanessa to her feet. "A gentleman," Beckett murmured, his voice rich and low, "always waits for the lady's permission." Vanessa didn't say a word. Her lashes fluttered shut, her chin tilting upward in clear, unmistakable invitation. Surrounded by the rowdy cheers of the boys who had claimed to love her, Beckett pulled her against his chest. Their lips met. It wasn't a game-show peck. It was slow, deliberate, and consuming. His hand found the curve of her waist, fingers digging into the soft knit of her cardigan, while her hands tangled into his hair. I sat at the very edge of the sofa, watching the spectacle with a detachment so complete it felt almost clinical. I remembered the weekend three weeks ago, when Vanessa had casually mentioned wanting to visit an exclusive gallery opening in the city. Beckett had jumped at the chance, spending two hours steaming his charcoal tailored suit. When I had asked him why he was dressing up so much for an afternoon errand with a friend, he had snapped: It's a high-end gallery, Hannah. You expect me to show up looking like a slob just because you only own hoodies? The rot had been there all along. I had just refused to smell it. I stood up. The sudden screech of the wooden table against the floorboards cut through the cheers. The two of them broke apart, slightly breathless. Vanessa turned toward me, her eyes gleaming with smug vindication, her face practically screaming: I knew you'd crack. I looked straight at Beckett. "Beckett," I said, my voice steady, devoid of tears or tremor. "We're done." Without waiting for an answer, without looking at Zach, Foster, or Rowan, I turned on my heel and walked out the front door. By the time I reached my room, my phone was vibrating continuously against the counter. The group chat was already past ninety-nine notifications. Hannah, what the hell is your problem? You agreed to help us out. Why are you throwing a fit right now? If you couldn't handle the game, you should've spoken up! Don't be a sore loser. When I wanted no part of their games, they dragged me in. Now that I was walking away, I was the villain breaking the rules. A direct notification popped up from Beckett: Hannah, get down here and explain this to Vanessa right now. She's hysterical, asking what you meant by 'we're done.' I told her it was a secret dare we set up to mess with her. Do NOT contradict me. I switched the phone off and placed it face down. Not a single question about whether I was hurt. Not a single plea for my forgiveness. To the very end, the world only spun around Vanessa Taylor. 4 I opened my laptop and pulled up Slack, finding the thread with my senior project director. Hi Marcus, is that regional expansion initiative in Chicago still open for another lead analyst? Marcus replied in less than two minutes: Always room for you, Hannah. Did your coastal retreat wrap up early? I stared at the blinking cursor for a second. Yes. I'm flying home first thing tomorrow morning. I pulled my suitcase from the top of the closet and laid it flat across the luggage rack. This trip was over. And the twenty-year road I had walked with those four boys had reached a dead end. At two in the morning, the heavy brass lock on my bedroom door clicked. The door was shoved open without a knock. I sat bolt upright in bed, pulling the duvet up to my collarbone. Beckett stood in the threshold, wheeling a large pastel-pink suitcase into my room. Behind him, draped in an oversized cashmere sweater, was Vanessa, her eyes puffy and her lip quivering. "What are you doing?" I demanded, my pulse spiking in alarm. "Get out of my room!" Beckett didn't even look at me as he hoisted Vanessa’s luggage onto the bench. "The master suite bathroom had a pipe burst. Vanessa’s floor is flooded. She's staying in here tonight. Take the sofa in the hall and let her have the bed." I sat frozen, unable to process the sheer audacity of the words. They had barged into my private space in the middle of the night, not just demanding my room, but evicting me to the couch? Vanessa shrank behind his shoulder, her voice small and trembling. "Beckett... I really don't feel comfortable sharing a suite with her. I can tell... she has feelings for you. I'm scared of what she might do to me while I'm sleeping..." She let her voice trail off into an ominous whisper. A hollow laugh scraped past my throat. No matter what poison spilled from her mouth, Beckett would never defend me. The woman who had loved him for five years was now an intruder, while the girl who had known him for five weeks dictated the terms of our existence. Beckett tapped his phone screen, glancing out the dark window. "The local inns out here are completely booked. There’s an Airbnb motel out near the state forest, about five miles down the highway. They have a self-check-in cabin. You can stay there tonight, and we’ll drive out to pick you up in the morning." I clicked the link he forwarded to my phone. The place was in the middle of nowhere, flanked by pitch-black pine woods, miles away from streetlights or emergency services. It was three in the morning. I looked at Beckett. Then I looked at Vanessa, who was peering out from behind his bicep like a prized pet. "Okay," I said quietly. I climbed out of bed, threw on my jeans, and began packing. The noise-canceling headphones sitting on the desk—an anniversary gift from Beckett two years ago—stayed on the desk. The leather cross-body bag he bought me for my twentieth birthday stayed in the wardrobe. As I dumped out the bathroom amenities, he crossed his arms, tapping his foot against the hardwood. "Just grab the essentials, Hannah. You're coming back tomorrow anyway. It’s three in the morning—let Vanessa get some sleep." I paused, my hand hovering over my toothbrush. Vanessa needed her beauty sleep. I, apparently, did not. I was the one who could be dragged out of bed at three in the morning and cast out into the woods five miles away. From the very beginning, I should never have indulged this pathetic delusion of being "one of the guys." They weren't my brothers. They weren't even my friends. I zipped my duffel shut. "I'm done." Beckett walked me to the front porch after getting Vanessa settled with fresh water and extra blankets. "Text me when you check in," he said, rubbing his eyes. "And stop pouting, Han. Once this trip is over, I'll sit down with Vanessa and make sure she understands everything." I looked up at the cold, starless sky and smiled faintly. "I look forward to that day, Beckett." I hauled my luggage down the driveway to the yellow cab I had dispatched twenty minutes earlier. I slid into the backseat and closed the door. "Nantucket Memorial Airport, please." The driver shifted into drive, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. "Early flight, miss? Was that handsome fella back there your boyfriend?" I turned my head toward the dark pines blurring past the glass. "He used to be," I said. "Not anymore." By the time my connecting flight touched down in my hometown, the morning sun was beating down on the tarmac. I turned off airplane mode. The group chat was already buzzing with breakfast plans, debating which artisanal brunch spot on the wharf would serve Vanessa the best blueberry pancakes. A private direct message popped up from Zach: Hey, bro. You still sulking? Look, that motel you're at is way too far out. Driving all the way out there to pick you up will wreck our morning schedule. Just grab an Uber back to town yourself. By the way, there's a bakery near that exit that does those famous cinnamon rolls. Grab five of them on your way in. Five. Not six. Exactly five. Just like the tickets to the concert. Just like every scrap of affection, consideration, and respect they possessed. They poured it all over Vanessa Taylor, leaving not a single crumb for the girl who had bled for them on the side of a mountain. Without a word, I opened Zach’s profile and hit block. Then Foster. Then Rowan. Then Beckett. Finally, with a steady thumb, I tapped the red button and left the group chat forever. No goodbye speeches. No bitter manifestos. When a house is already burned to ash, there is no need to sweep the floor.