Reporting My Unfaithful Fiancé to Command

New Year’s Eve. I’d just crossed two thousand miles, flying in from my remote deployment, only to hear a girl at the arrivals gate call out my fiancé’s name into her phone. “Jamie, I’m off the plane! Where are you?” The voice, syrupy-sweet with that particular tone of new-love entitlement, came from right behind me. I froze, turning instinctively. “I know, I know, your base keeps you busy… but I’m here now. You can’t leave me alone for the holiday, can you?” Her coaxing tone was unsettlingly familiar. Three years ago, I’d said the exact same words to James Davies. Back then, he’d just been transferred to the Naval Base in San Diego, and I was still at medical school in Seattle, making every visit a cross-country haul. I shook my head, silently chiding myself for the sudden paranoia. It’s a huge world. There are thousands of men named James. But then, her voice sharpened, the words ringing clear: “Commander Davies, if you don’t come get me, I swear I’m going to hang a banner right outside your unit gates!” James Davies. My fiancé. The same rank. The same command. … On impulse, a sudden, cold dread overriding my reason, I pulled out my phone and sent James a text. [James, can you get leave tonight? I’m in the city.] No reply. The girl linked arms with a friend and drifted toward the checkout aisle of a small airport convenience store. She flashed her phone. “See? Five minutes, and he’s already checking my location.” Joking, she reached for the condoms, grabbing a handful of Trojans. Her friend gave her a suggestive look. “Seriously, Sutton? Going that wild?” “Sutton, you and James are seriously obsessed with each other. Were those complaints just a humblebrag for my benefit?” Sutton giggled, a brazen, youthful sound. “I’m not leaving anything for the other little vultures, am I?” Other customers glanced over, some stifling smiles. Sutton didn’t care, swaying her hips as she and her friend walked out. I paid for my water and followed them. It was the dead of a cold December, and Sutton was wearing a backless dress under a thin coat, her bare legs jarring against the icy wind. She looked barely twenty, all sunshine and carefree abandon. The exact opposite of me, a Naval Medical Officer, usually dressed in serviceable fabrics and always, always bare-faced. When they reached the curb, Sutton’s friend hailed a ride. Sutton continued walking, humming a tune as she went. Every corner, our paths aligned. When I finally recognized the melody, my steps slowed involuntarily. It was the song James had sung at a base talent show years ago—the one he’d claimed he only ever sang for me. Sutton pulled out her phone and dialed. “Jamie, I’m almost there. Wait for me outside?” Whatever he said in response, she pouted playfully. “I’m layered up, I’m not cold at all. If you don’t believe me, come check for yourself.” “You can even put your hands inside my coat, under my top, and on my…” I looked down at my phone. Still no reply. A cold draft slipped into my sleeves, and I shivered. My fingertip hovered over the screen, then I pressed the call button. A mechanical female voice coolly replied: “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.” I understood. When he was on assignment or in intensive training, his phone was held by the command. That had to be it. “James!” Sutton suddenly broke into a little run and flung herself into a man’s arms. I tilted my umbrella up, looking forward. One glance, and I was pinned to the sidewalk. The man, in civilian clothes, hugged Sutton tight, then playfully ruffled her hair. “You, you menace.” He had the face that was etched into my very bones. At seven, we grew up together on the base housing complex. He pressed a miniature military challenge coin into my hand. “Maeve, every medal and coin I ever earn will belong to you.” At fifteen, he awkwardly told me to throw away love letters from other boys. “They’re not as good as me.” At nineteen, the night before he deployed, he stood outside my window until dawn, insisting he had to see me. At twenty-three, he was selected for Special Warfare, disappearing for three months of radio silence on a critical mission. The first thing he did when he got back, twenty pounds lighter, was find me at the hospital. Last month, he handed me his savings account card, accumulated over five years of active duty pay. “Maeve, once this promotion goes through, we’ll submit the marriage packet.” Twenty-one years. Childhood sweethearts. We were two steadfast pillars, growing side-by-side. Our love was my Anchor—my source of stability and truth. But in this one second. Everything turned to ash. The rain pounded a frantic rhythm on my umbrella. It wasn’t until they turned, embraced, and walked toward the side entrance of the base housing that I managed to pull myself from my stunned paralysis. My phone buzzed. It was James. [In a training cycle. Just got my phone back. What’s up?] The sudden downpour had drenched my shoes. The damp cold crept up from my feet. My legs felt like they were encased in concrete, and I couldn’t move. I adjusted the green field jacket I was wearing—the one he’d given me, the exact shade of his fatigues. My hand shaking, I dialed his number again. It connected, then was immediately rejected. James sent a new text: [My CO is right here, can’t talk. Text it out.] I bit down on my lip, typing word by word. [Training cycle, or spending time with another woman?] As I was about to hit send, a screeching halt sounded behind me. “Watch out!” I couldn’t react in time. A rogue delivery bike clipped me, sending me sprawling. The world spun as I landed hard on the slick, wet pavement. The sharp, cold dampness soaked through my clothes. The pain, sluggish and delayed, crawled from my knee up to my heart. The young Marine who’d crashed scrambled to help me up. “Ma’am, are you okay?” Seeing his uniform, his face pale with panic, I waved him off. “I’m fine. Just go.” My phone screen was shattered, and my unsent accusation was lost to the void. I found a cheap motel nearby and took a scalding shower. I bought a new phone, slipped my SIM card in. James’s latest message popped up: [Night drills tonight, no video call. Talk tomorrow. Be good.] I blinked, my eyes dry and gritty, sitting numbly on the edge of the bed. I simply could not understand. Why? Why would James cheat? And the girl—did she know she was a homewrecker? I opened my social media. Though I didn’t know the spelling of her name, I found her quickly in James’s ‘Following’ list on Instagram. Her profile picture was taken inside James’s barracks room. The perfectly folded blanket in the background was the “hospital corner” fold I’d spent hours teaching him. He’d hugged me then, saying, “Maeve’s folding is the gold standard. I have to keep it like this forever.” Sutton was a travel influencer with a decent following. I scrolled down. The earliest post linked to James was from June. Sutton clinging to a man’s arm, the background the hiking trail near the base. Caption: [First date with my military man! So happy!] That trail. It was the place we walked every time I visited. The place he’d promised: “Maeve, this trail is for us. Every step here will be a memory of you.” In July, Sutton was at the beach with James. It was my birthday that day. James had told me he was out on maneuvers. His actual dynamic was with Sutton, experiencing her “first time scuba diving.” I felt a chill deep in my bones. James’s face wasn’t fully visible in any of her pictures, but I recognized the jagged scar on his forearm—the one he’d gotten shielding me from broken glass when we were teenagers. I opened a private chat and sent Sutton a message. [Hi. Do you know James has a fiancée? Did he lie to you and say he was single?] Less than half an hour later, Sutton posted a new story. The picture was of a cocktail dress, impossibly short. [My battle armor for tonight. Gave someone a sneak peek, and he loved it.] I clenched my jaw, shaking with cold. Just last month, when I came to visit the base, James had gently pushed away my hug. He frowned. “Maeve, you smell like hospital disinfectant.” Sutton replied to my DM. [Maeve Sterling, the doctor. I know who you are.] [Love is a competition. Winner takes all.] [And right now, it looks like you lost.] I laughed—a sharp, mirthless sound. The night before James’s enlistment, he’d met me on the old training field behind the complex. In the moonlight, dressed in a brand-new uniform, he gave me a crisp salute. “Dr. Sterling, I promise you, no matter where I go, you are always my home base.” His eyes had been fierce and bright. “Maeve, I’m coming back, and we’re getting married.” For years, many doubted our long-distance military romance, yet we never broke. When he was on dangerous assignments, I couldn’t ask or guess, just clung to the nightly news updates. From Ensign to Lieutenant, then a Commander in Special Warfare. He’d said: “Once you finish your medical fellowship, you can apply to the Naval Hospital right here on my base.” Only a few months left. Happiness was just a few steps away. Yet today, he let a stranger declare me the loser. Sutton sent another DM. It was a secretly recorded video clip. James, in civvies, looking slightly drunk, his eyes glazed over in the dim bar light. Sutton’s voice, flirtatious: “Jamie, what’s your fiancée like?” The bar music was loud, but it didn’t drown out his reply. “Don’t even bring her up. Every day is the same routine.” “She’s boring.” He looked toward the camera, his gaze holding the familiar tenderness that was once only for me: “So, what are we doing that’s fresh tonight?” The camera shook, followed by the sound of an intimate kiss. The phone screen went dark, reflecting my own pale, horrified face. I scrambled to the bathroom and dry-heaved a few times, then booked a one-way train ticket back home. While packing, a searing pain gripped my lower right abdomen. Sweat beaded on my forehead. Suspecting acute appendicitis, I hailed a cab straight to the Naval Medical Center. It was peak flu season, and the ER was overflowing. I crouched outside the consultation room, too pained to stand upright. At three in the morning, I finally got my ultrasound report. The physician asked, “Acute appendicitis. Needs surgery. Where is your family?” James’s call came in right then. I rejected it. He called back persistently. In the quiet examination room, the distinct ringtone was impossible to ignore. I answered, and his voice was frantic, bordering on hysterical. “A friend sprained her ankle. How do I treat it right now? What’s the emergency protocol?” I heard Sutton’s muffled, low sob on his end. The last flicker of warmth inside me died. I said coldly, my voice flat: “Treat it however you want.” “Maeve Sterling! You’re a medical officer! Listen to yourself! How could you say that?!” James’s angry shout assaulted my ears. I curled into a ball, fighting the excruciating pain. I remembered him saying: “All my first aid knowledge came from you. I’ll only ever use it for you.” James continued, “She’s crying in pain. Just tell me what to do.” My eyes burned with unshed tears. I tilted my head back, forcing the hot liquid to retreat. The military surgeon across from me produced the consent form. “Ma’am, if no next-of-kin can make it, you can sign for yourself.” James was silent for a few seconds. “You… you’re at the hospital?” Without waiting for my answer, he stated confidently, “On a night shift, right? Since you’re not sleeping, is it really that hard to answer me? What kind of petty game are you playing?!” The tears finally broke through, streaming down my face. I laughed softly. “You’re right.” “It’s a petty game.” “James. You and I are finished.” James hung up first. His final sound was a scoff. “Fine, don’t talk. It’s not like I need you.” The dead connection and the relentless rain outside blended into an overwhelming cold. I put the phone down and offered the surgeon a tired apology. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have let you hear that.” My voice was hoarse. “My family won’t make it. I’ll sign for myself.” When I woke up, I was lying alone in the recovery room. The incision throbbed faintly. My phone had several new messages—from my Commanding Officer and my parents. After updating my CO on the surgery, I requested two extra days of leave. Facing my parents, however, was harder. My mother’s voice was anxious. “Didn’t you say you’d be home today?” “What happened?” The true collapse of an adult often means maintaining a façade of normalcy even when your heart is dead. I took a deep breath and said lightly, “The Naval Center had an emergency medical seminar. I decided to stay an extra couple of days to attend.” After repeated reassurances, my mother reluctantly hung up. I was finally drifting off to sleep when a knock came, and the door was pushed open. James walked in. He placed a bouquet of flowers by the bedside and reached out to touch my face. “Maeve, last night you just…” His fingers smelled of rubbing alcohol mixed with a familiar, floral cologne. The same scent. I’d smelled it on Sutton yesterday. I turned my head, pulling away. He lowered his hand. “I didn’t know you were here. I couldn’t reach you, so I called your CO. That’s how I found out you were admitted.” He looked at the back of my head, his tone laced with exasperation. “Do you really have to be like this?” He pulled out a small, velvet box and pushed it into my hand. “Happy New Year. Don’t be angry anymore, okay?” My palm was icy cold. Just five minutes before I was wheeled into surgery, Sutton had posted a story. A pile of gifts surrounded her. She unboxed them one by one: a designer handbag, a new phone, a couple’s resort package… Only the miniature, customized military medal, sitting to the side, prompted her to pout. “Ugh, what’s this? I wanted the real thing.” The person filming laughed indulgently. “Fine, if you don’t want it, I’ll give it to a buddy on the base.” I extended my hand off the bed rail, letting the velvet box drop onto the tiled floor. My throat was dry. “James, we’re done.” “Done?” He shook his head in disbelief, a single, sharp laugh escaping him. “I already submitted the marriage packet. And you’re telling me we’re done?” “Maeve, you’re not a child. Don’t be so unreasonable.” As he spoke, the phone in his pocket vibrated constantly. He pulled it out and quickly texted a reply. The room was too quiet. I saw the look on his face—gentle, patient—and knew exactly who he was texting. I repeated: “We’re done. Withdraw the paperwork.” His face darkened completely. “Stop joking. This isn’t funny.” I braced myself and sat up, handing him the flowers from the nightstand. “Take these, too.” They must have been a last-minute buy from the hospital gift shop. Tucked inside were two tulips, which I’m severely allergic to. James stood motionless, a flash of impatience in his eyes. I looked at him, truly looked, for a long moment. How did the face I’d etched onto my heart suddenly look so alien? “Stop this nonsense,” he said, his voice flat. I let out a low sigh. “James, I saw Sutton.” “If I don’t end this, are you expecting me to allow her to be a side piece for the rest of her life?” He froze.