The Fiancé Swap

I took a personal day for Christmas, boarding a three-hour train to give my boyfriend a surprise.

The second I stepped out of the rideshare, a heavy rain broke. I dashed into a corner store to buy an umbrella.

While I was looking at the selection, a girl nearby was chatting with her friend about her own boyfriend.

“He is such a stage-five clinger, seriously. If I don’t text him back for an hour, I get ninety-nine new messages.”

“And today, of all days, he whined and practically demanded I come down to the studio to keep him company.”

“I’m only going because the Christmas gift he promised is supposedly epic.”

Her friend chuckled. “You landed a high-caliber guy like Graham, you should count your blessings.”

I froze.

My boyfriend was also named Graham.

And, his recording studio was just around the corner.

1

As if possessed, I pulled out my phone and sent him a message.

Graham, it’s Christmas night. Are you really going to work late?

No reply.

The girl beside me looped her arm through her friend’s and headed to the checkout.

She waved her phone. “Look. It’s been five minutes, and he’s already asking if I’ve arrived.”

Laughing with her friend, she reached toward the shelf near the counter—the one stocked with contraceptives.

Her friend gave her a suggestive elbow nudge. “Two boxes? Vivian, you and Graham must be really going at it. And here I thought you were complaining about him being clingy, when really you were just bragging.”

The girl, Vivian, swatted her friend playfully. “Hey, if I don’t wear him out, who knows what other little vixen will?”

Other customers in the store glanced over, a few of them stifling smiles. Vivian didn’t seem to care, tossing her long, dark waves as she walked out with her friend.

I paid for my umbrella and followed them out.

At this point, I was still clinging to the cold comfort of coincidence: Graham is a common name.

It was a December winter, but this girl, Vivian, was wearing a crop top under her jacket and had bare legs. She looked barely twenty, radiating an effortless, reckless kind of sunshine.

A stark contrast to me, the woman with every single button of her shirt done up to the throat.

On the sidewalk, Vivian’s friend hailed a cab and waved goodbye. Vivian started humming, continuing down the street.

At every intersection, our paths remained the same.

When I finally registered the tune she was humming, my steps slowed involuntarily.

It was Graham’s new track, a song he’d personally arranged and recorded, which had only been released to the public today.

Even I had only heard a few snatches of the chorus during a video call.

Vivian lifted her phone and dialed. “Hey, Graham, I’m almost there. Come meet me at the door?”

Whatever he said on the other end, she responded with a playful, mock-offended huff. “I’m wearing tons of layers! I’m not cold at all, you big baby. If you don’t believe me, come check for yourself.”

“You can even slip your hand under my coat, past my shirt, and down to my…”

I scanned my own phone screen.

Still nothing.

A cold draft snaked its way up my sleeve, and I shivered, clutching my jacket tighter.

My finger hovered over the call button. I pressed it.

A mechanical, cold female voice replied, “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.” I understood immediately: Do Not Disturb mode.

He’d told me he was too busy with work this year, and that once he was in the studio, he couldn’t pick up. Not being able to reach him wasn’t new.

“Graham!”

Vivian suddenly ran forward a few steps and threw herself into a man’s arms.

I raised my umbrella slightly and looked ahead.

In that single, sharp moment, I was pinned to the spot.

The man, holding his own umbrella, held Vivian tight, then sighed, rubbing her hair with a helpless, yet utterly familiar tenderness.

“You, I swear.”

He had the face I had etched into my bones.

At five, we walked hand-in-hand from kindergarten back to the same apartment complex. He gave me the chocolate he’d kept hidden all day. “Delaney, from now on, all my candy is yours.”

At fifteen, when first love bloomed, he awkwardly told me to throw away the notes the boys put in my locker. “Those guys have agendas. I’m the only one who’s good to you.”

At nineteen, when we started dating long distance, he took an overnight Amtrak just to see me, the gift bags leaving red welts on his hands.

At twenty-three, he came alone to the city to start his company. He cooked for me in his cramped, humid sublet, coughing from the smoke, but still telling me to stand back. “Honey, I’m putting you in a hotel tonight. This place is too damp. You won’t sleep well.”

Last month, he handed me a crisp, new set of documents.

“Wife, as soon as the house is renovated, we’ll go down to the courthouse and make it official.”

Twenty-eight years. Childhood sweethearts. We had grown into a co-dependent, interlocked tree.

But in this second.

Everything turned to ash.

2

The rain hammered the umbrella, drip-drop, drip-drop.

Only after they turned, locked in an embrace, and walked away, did the numbness begin to recede.

My phone screen flickered.

It was Graham.

Busy. Can’t take the call.

The sudden downpour had soaked my shoes. The wet, icy sensation spread from my feet, and I felt as though my legs had been encased in concrete, stiff and immovable.

I pulled my jacket tighter.

With trembling hands, I dialed again.

Still busy.

Graham sent a new text.

I said I was busy. Stop blowing up my phone.

I bit down on my lip, typing word by word.

Busy working, or busy cheating?

Just as I was about to hit send, a shout came from behind.

“Look out!”

I couldn’t react in time. A delivery cyclist, skidding on the wet pavement, struck me.

The world spun. I slammed onto the slick ground, landing heavily on my side.

The cold, sharp dampness seeped through my clothes instantly. The pain, a slow-motion throb, climbed from my knee to my heart.

I slowly got back up, wiping the rain and a strange wetness from my face.

The delivery driver, looking equally rough, rushed over. “Are you okay?”

Seeing his own bedraggled state, I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

My phone screen had shattered, leaving my unsent question with no follow-up.

I found a nearby hotel and took a scalding hot shower.

Downstairs, I bought a cheap new phone and swapped my SIM card.

Graham had sent one new message.

Something came up, so no video chat tonight. Talk tomorrow, be good.

I blinked my dry eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed in a daze.

I simply could not understand.

Why?

Why would Graham cheat?

And the girl—did she know she was the other woman?

A thought struck me. I opened Instagram.

Despite not knowing her full name, I quickly found her in the comments section of Graham’s latest post.

Her profile picture was taken in Graham’s room.

The curtains behind her were the ones I’d spent three hours at the fabric store agonizing over.

Graham often pulled all-nighters working, and worried he’d have trouble sleeping during the day due to light sensitivity, I had specifically asked the tailor to double-line them.

Vivian was a fashion influencer with a decent following.

I scrolled down.

The first post involving Graham appeared in June.

Vivian was clutching a man’s arm in front of a comedy club.

The caption: First date with a certain someone. So happy!

That was the same comedy club I had taken Graham to—I thought he needed a break from work stress and a good stand-up show.

He had promised me, “Delaney, I’ll only go to these things with you. That way, all the really happy memories will belong only to us.”

In July, Vivian and Graham were on a beach vacation.

It was my birthday that month, a day Graham had told me he was out of town on a work trip. But in her post, she was talking about challenging herself to “first-time surfing” with him.

A deep chill settled over me.

Graham’s face wasn’t clearly visible in any of the photos, but I couldn’t lie to myself or ignore the familiar, recurring details.

I opened a private message to Vivian.

Hi. Do you know Graham has a serious girlfriend? Did he lie to you and say he was single?

Less than half an hour later, Vivian posted a new story.

The dress in the photo looked like a crisp white coat, but its length barely covered her bottom.

Tonight’s battle uniform. Gave a sneak peek to a certain someone, and he is obsessed.

I clenched my jaw, shaking from the cold that was now deep inside me.

Just last month, I’d come home from work and excitedly jumped into Graham’s arms.

He had gently pushed me away.

He frowned. “Honey, you smell like hospital disinfectant.”

Vivian’s reply finally landed in my DMs.

Dr. Delaney. I know who you are.

It’s an open market, all’s fair in love and war. Winner takes all.

And right now, it looks like you lost.

3

I forced a wry, mocking smile onto my face.

The night after high school graduation, Graham had called me to the park near our homes.

In the moonlight, his ears red, he produced a handwritten promise.

“Graham promises that Delaney will always be number one to him.”

His eyes had been bright, almost frighteningly so. “Delaney, please, be with me.”

Years of long-distance through college. Everyone doubted us, but we never drifted apart.

When he chose to start his own business, he couldn’t tell his parents how hard it was. I used my fellowship money and student stipends to help cover his living expenses.

From the cramped, leaky sublet to the upscale loft, and finally, the paid-off house meant to be our marital home.

He said, “As soon as you finish your residency, you can move here to be with me.”

Only a few months left.

Happiness was on the very doorstep.

But today, he let a stranger declare me the loser.

Vivian sent another DM.

It was a video, secretly recorded.

Graham’s eyes looked hazy, like he’d been drinking.

Vivian giggled. “Graham, what is your girlfriend like, anyway?”

The bar music was loud, but it didn’t completely drown out his reply.

“Don’t even mention her. She’s the same every single day.”

“Honestly, she’s pretty boring.”

He looked directly at the camera with the familiar, gentle gaze I knew so well. “What new trouble should we get into tonight?”

The camera shook, and the sound of an intimate kiss followed.

The phone screen went dark, reflecting my own pale face.

The images in my head made me nauseous.

Rushing to the bathroom, I dry-heaved a few times, then booked a train ticket back home.

While packing, a sharp pain in my lower right abdomen came in waves, leaving my forehead slick with sweat.

Suspecting acute appendicitis, I hailed a cab straight to the ER.

It was flu season, and the waiting room was so crowded people were sitting on the floor.

I crouched outside the clinic, unable to stand up straight from the pain.

At three in the morning, I finally got the ultrasound report.

The doctor told me, “The symptoms and scan confirm acute appendicitis. We should perform surgery as soon as possible.”

“Is your family not here?”

Just then, Graham’s number flashed on my phone.

I disconnected the call.

He called back again, relentlessly.

In the quiet consulting room, the ringing was impossible to ignore.

I answered. His voice was frantic, almost panicked.

“A friend of mine cut her foot pretty badly on a broken vase. What should I do?”

In the background, I could hear Vivian’s low, whining sobs.

If I hadn’t seen them, I would have been naive enough to assume it was a studio employee.

The last of my warmth drained away. I spoke in an icy tone. “Deal with it however you see fit.”

“Delaney!”

“You’re a doctor! Listen to yourself. What kind of heartless thing is that to say?!” Graham’s enraged shout echoed through the phone.

I curled into a ball, struggling to suppress the spasm of pain.

I thought of the glass vase we had picked out together at the home goods store. We had planned to take it to the new house.

Now, it must be completely shattered.

Graham continued. “I didn’t want to bother anyone in the middle of the night, so I called you. She’s crying from the pain. Just tell me what to do!”

My eyes felt hot and scratchy, but I tilted my head back, forcing the stinging liquid back down my throat and nose.

The doctor opposite me produced the surgical consent form. “If no family is coming, you can sign yourself.”

Graham was silent for a few seconds.

“Wait… are you at the hospital?”

Without waiting for my answer, he stated with certainty, “You’re on a night shift, aren’t you?”

“If you’re not sleeping, then is it really that difficult to answer a simple question? What are you trying to prove with this childish tantrum?!”

A tear finally broke free and fell. I let out a small, hollow laugh.

“You’re right.”

“I am throwing a childish tantrum.”

“Graham, we’re finished. It’s over.”