Half a Dozen

I found out he cheated from Venmo. The caption was a rose emoji.

His name was Dylan. We were in that "I love you, but I'm not saying it first" stage, six months in. He'd gotten me roses for my birthday. Twelve, long-stemmed, gorgeous. I took a photo and posted it on my story, captioned "spoiled."

Two weeks later, I was scrolling Venmo. The public feed, because I'm nosy and it's 2 AM. And there it was.

Dylan paid Jess M. $18.00. Caption: "half the roses 🌹"

Half.

I stared at it for a full minute. My brain stalled like a laptop on low battery. I opened my photos, counted the stems in my birthday picture. Twelve. Then counted again.

Eight. There were eight roses in the photo, not twelve. I'd never noticed because I wasn't counting. You don't count flowers when someone gives them to you with love.

He'd bought a dozen. Split them with another girl.

I called him. He answered all sweet, "Hey, baby." I said, "Who's Jess?"

Silence. Then: "Wait, what?"

I said, "She got four. I got eight. Hope the maths was worth it."

He tried to explain. I hung up halfway through "it's not what it looks like."

I cried for an hour, then cleaned my room.

The roses were still in a vase on my desk, dying right on schedule.

Even his apology came in installments.