My Groom Ran to His First Love, So I Married Someone Better

The AC in the courthouse lobby is blasting. The clerk freezes mid-motion, pen in the air, looking at me like I've grown a second head. "Ma'am… are we still signing?" The couple behind us in line leans over, all attitude. "Are you two doing this or not? We got a reception to get to." "Yeah, dude bailed. What are you still sitting there for?" I cap the pen. Slide it back across the counter. "No signing. Please cancel the application." The clerk opens her mouth. Closes it. Says nothing. I take that torn-up license, rip it clean in half, and walk out without looking back. The sun outside is blinding. I flag a cab. "Kingston Avenue, please." Back at the condo Josh and I decorated together. I push open the door and the entire place hits me like a punch. Red everywhere. Big red hearts on the windows. Two custom ring-bearer dolls on the couch. Piles of wedding invites and party favors on the coffee table. My phone buzzes. Ryan Cole—Josh's best friend—just posted on Instagram. A photo. Josh, cradling a girl in a white sundress, rushing into the ER. You only see the back of his head, but you can see his hand—the way he's shielding her face like she's made of glass. Caption: "First loves hit different. Ten years of 'the right girl' can't compete." Three of our mutual friends already liked it. I stare at that photo for a full minute. Then I tap the little heart. Like it. Close the app. Toss the phone on the couch. I peel off the white dress I had custom-made for today. Wipe off every scrap of makeup. Throw on jeans and a tee. Then I head straight for the hotel downtown. I walk into the lobby, straight up to the front desk. "Cancel tonight's wedding reception. Refund the deposit to the original card." The manager's smile freezes. He glances at the booking, then back at me. "Ms. Carter… you don't know?" I frown. "Know what?" "Mr. Palmer called half an hour ago. He converted tonight's reception into a 'get-well party' for a Ms. Whitman." My voice drops. "He changed the name on the booking? What about the deposit?" The manager dabs sweat off his forehead. "Mr. Palmer said we should just apply the eight thousand you already put down. He'll cover the rest tonight." I laugh out loud. Bitter. He ditches me at the altar to run to his ex—and then uses my eight grand to throw her a party? "That eight thousand came out of my personal account. My name is on the booking." "Without my signature, who the hell authorized changing the event?" The manager stutters. "Mr. Palmer said you two were husband and wife, so—" "We are not married." I cut him off. "Refund my eight thousand right now. To my account. Or I'm calling the cops on you for fraud and reporting your hotel to the state." His face goes white. He grabs the walkie-talkie and pages the finance office. Two minutes later my phone dings. Money's back. I turn to leave. Behind me, the front doors swing open. A group walks in, balloons and streamers in hand. Leading the pack was Josh's best friend—Ryan Cole. ---

Ryan struts in holding a massive bouquet of red roses. "Well, well, if it isn't Jenna. What are you doing here, sweetheart?" His boys crowd in behind him, snickering. Ryan tosses the roses on a lobby couch. "Josh sent me and the boys ahead to set up. Lindsay just got her stomach pumped. Josh wants to throw her a little pick-me-up." He looks me up and down. "You know what your problem is? You're too intense. You push too hard. Poor Lindsay's having a full-blown depression episode—almost died. You and Josh have been together, what, seven years? What's one more day?" I look at Ryan's smug face. Turn. Walk over to the wine table set up for guests. Grab a full glass of red. Walk right back. He's still going. "Lindsay said her biggest regret in life is never wearing a wedding dress, so Josh figured tonight he'd—" The entire glass of red wine goes straight in his face. Ryan screams. Stumbles back, clawing at his eyes. "Jenna! Are you insane?!" His boys rush in with napkins. "Go tell Josh I already canceled the reception. He wants to throw a party for his side piece? He can pay for it himself." "And you—" I lean in close. "Show your face in front of me again, and next time it's boiling water." I don't bother listening to Ryan cursing behind me. I walk straight out the doors. The second I hit the steps, the sky opens. Rain pouring down in sheets. I stand under the awning and pull up the rideshare app. Two hundred people ahead of me in the queue. I put my phone away. My office is two blocks up. I'll walk. Heels sloshing through puddles. I make it past one crosswalk when a sharp cramp rips through my lower belly. I stagger against a bus stop pole. Black spots swim in front of my eyes. My legs give out. I hit the wet pavement. Last thing I hear before everything goes dark: "Somebody call 911! She just dropped!" I wake up staring at a hospital ceiling. A doctor in a white coat walks over with a chart. "You're awake. How you feeling?" I struggle to sit up. My hand goes to my stomach. Still aching. "Doctor… what happened?" He flips the chart open. Pushes his glasses up. "You're six weeks pregnant. You didn't know?" I go blank. There's a loud ringing in my ears. The doctor looks at the chart again, his expression turning serious. “I’m sorry, but the pregnancy is no longer viable. We can’t save the baby.” “You’ll need surgery next week to remove the remaining tissue. If we leave it untreated, you could develop severe bleeding or a life-threatening infection.” I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Pregnant. And I was going to lose the baby. The door bangs open. Josh comes tearing in, still in this morning's white dress shirt. He strides over, sees me propped up in bed, and his face twists. "Jenna. Are you done? Seriously?" He doesn't ask why I'm in the hospital. Doesn't ask if I'm okay. First words out of his mouth are an accusation. "Lindsay just calmed down. Why the hell did you like Ryan's post? She saw that like and lost it. She just tried to rip her IV out!" He's panting. Points at the door. "Get up. You're coming downstairs to her room. You're going to apologize. And you're going to tell her yourself that we didn't sign the license, so she can relax and heal." I look at this man. Seven years I've known him. Same face. Same eyes. But a total stranger looking back at me. I laugh. One short, ugly laugh. "Josh. I'm in the hospital." He blinks. His eyes flick to the IV in my hand. His voice softens a notch. "Yeah, I know, you got caught in the rain, you've got a fever. But Lindsay's got depression. She could actually die. You're tough. You'll bounce back. She's different." He drags a chair over. Sits. Sighs like I'm the exhausting one. "Baby, come on. You're always the reasonable one. Do this one thing for me." "Lindsay's really insecure right now. I'm gonna buy her a little condo downtown. Put it in her name. Once she has her own place, she'll recover faster." He looks at me. Like this is all perfectly logical. "And the wedding? Let's just push it back a year. Once Lindsay's stable, you and I will circle back." I stare at his face. My stomach heaves. Seven years. From college, to broke apartments, to eating ramen off cardboard boxes. Saving every paycheck for a down payment. I thought we were each other's whole world. I pull my hand out from under his. Point at the door. "Josh. You don't love me anymore." His face changes. He stands. "Jenna, don't start with this crap. I already told you she's SICK." "She needs me right now. I can't just walk away from her." He shoves both hands through his hair. "Cool off. I'll come back later." He turns. Walks out. Doesn't look back once. I stare at the closed door. My hand slides down to my flat stomach and stays there. I stared at his twisted face and pressed my hand flat against my stomach. ---

Next morning, I pull the IV out of my hand and walk down to the front desk with my bill. Passing a private room at the end of the hallway, I stop cold. I know that back. Josh is sitting at Lindsay's bedside, a bowl of porridge in his hand. He's blowing on the spoon. Gently. Lindsay is propped up on the pillows, pale as a ghost. She opens her mouth like a baby bird and lets him feed her. "Joshy, this is so good. You must've been cooking for hours." Josh wipes a grain of rice off her lip with a napkin. His voice is so soft I barely recognize it. "You like it? I'll make it for you every single day from now on." I stand outside that door, crumpling the bill in my fist. Seven years. Every time I got sick, every time I ran a fever, Josh's answer was always the same: DoorDash. He swore up and down he'd burn boiling water. Said he had zero talent in the kitchen. Turns out he could cook just fine. He just didn't want to. Not for me. Lindsay turns her head and spots me in the doorway. She lets out a horror-movie scream, slaps the bowl right out of Josh's hand, and dives under the covers. "Sis, please don't blame Joshy. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have gotten sick. I shouldn't be making him take care of me." Josh doesn't even flinch at the boiling porridge splashed on his hand. He wraps his arms around Lindsay, rubbing her back. Then he spins around and glares at me like he wants to kill me. "Jenna! Are you seriously doing this?!" "I told you to cool off! What the hell are you doing on Lindsay's floor?" Josh jabs a finger at me. Then—before I can react—he shoves me hard in the shoulder. I stumble back three steps. My lower back slams into the hallway railing. Sharp pain rips through my belly. I clutch my stomach and slide down the railing to the floor. Josh freezes. His hand twitches, like he's about to reach for me. Then Lindsay wails from inside the room. He yanks his hand back. His face flashes annoyed. "Cut the drama. I barely touched you." "Get out of here. Don't make a scene in a damn hospital." I bite down hard. Grip the railing. Pull myself up on shaking legs. "Josh. Take a good look. This is a hospital bill." "I was walking to the front desk to pay. Nobody's got time to watch you two put on your little soap opera." I don't stick around for his stunned face. I walk straight to the elevator. That night I check myself out and go back to the condo. I just get out of the shower when my phone lights up. Venmo notification. From Josh. $52. Two voice memos right after. "Baby, I lost my temper today. That's on me. I sent you some cash—go grab that seafood porridge you love, my treat. Consider it my apology." I listen to the memo. Stare at that ridiculous $52 on my screen. I type back one line. "I've been allergic to shellfish for years, Josh. You never remembered. Not once." He replies fast: "I'm sorry, babe. Work's been killing me lately. My head's a mess." "Tomorrow I'll go to the mall myself and pick out a real gift. Just wait at home for me." I don't reply. I toss the phone on the bed. He doesn't come home that night. I lie there staring at the ceiling. Wide awake. Two in the morning, I throw the covers off and dig a stack of moving boxes out of the storage closet. I start packing. Just my stuff. Clothes from the closet. Skincare off the vanity. Books off the shelf. One by one, into the boxes. I walk into the living room. Look at the gray sectional. We picked it out together at the furniture store the week we moved in. The huge flat-screen across from it—we saved six months of bonuses for that TV. I still remember the day it was delivered. Josh picked me up and spun me around the living room. "Baby," he said, "I finally gave you a home." His eyes were on fire that day. The home is still here. The fire's out. I sweep our matching "his & hers" mugs off the coffee table into the trash. I pull every framed photo off the wall and dump them in a junk box. Watching the apartment empty out, my chest goes quiet. All that heat we had—it lost to reality in the end. I tape up the last box. Slap the dust off my hands. The sky outside is turning gray-blue. I let out one long breath. Done. Finally, done. ---