I Hope We Never Meet Again

The moment I ended the call, I drove straight to the apartment.

I had barely pulled up downstairs when two disheveled figures were dragged out by the police.

The woman was Jess Kacher—my girlfriend.

The man was Sonny Peterson—my brother in all but blood, the one who had grown up with me.

I had spent an entire day and night on an international flight just to rush back and give Jess a birthday surprise.

Now, the surprise had turned into a shock.

I sat in the car, my body rigid, my mind completely blank.

Jess angrily shook off the officer's grip, loudly arguing about something. Then she pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen.

A second later, my phone rang.

"Grayson! What the hell is wrong with you? You called the police on me?"

The moment I answered, her voice was sharp and frantic—none of her usual coquettish sweetness remained.

Leaning against the car door, I watched her twisted expression under the harsh lights not far away and replied calmly, "What do you mean? I reported someone for breaking into our apartment. Are you in our apartment?"

Silence fell on the other end.

A few seconds later, she stiffly changed the subject. "I'll explain everything later! Just tell the police it's a misunderstanding and have them let us go first!"

I said nothing, simply listening to the panic laced in her breathing.

Her tone softened, a trace of barely perceptible pleading slipping in. "Grayson… Thanksgiving is in a couple of days. Didn't we agree to visit my parents? Don't make this a big deal."

Ten years together—she was betting I would indulge her unconditionally.

She handed the phone to a nearby officer, and I heard her urgent voice say, "Officer, it's my boyfriend—he'll explain!"

I told the officer it was someone I knew, and to let it go.

A faint, meaningful chuckle came from the other end. "Kid, you ought to wise up."

Then the call ended.

I knew exactly what he meant.

But knowing something is one thing. Seeing it with your own eyes is another. When betrayal stands before you in the flesh, wearing the two faces you know best, the impact is enough to crush you entirely.

I saw Sonny holding Jess's hand with a wounded expression, murmuring something softly. She kept patting his back, comforting him.

The scene was both blinding and absurd.

Just two days ago, Sonny had been on the phone with me, helping me plan a surprise for her, grinning as he said, "Hurry up and marry Jess already. I'm waiting to drink at your wedding."

I pulled out my phone and, as if possessed, opened his social feed.

The latest post—uploaded an hour ago—was a grid of photos: a birthday cake and red wine.

Even though the background had been blurred, I recognized it instantly as our apartment.

The caption read: [She said she only spends important days with me. She and I—that's what 'us' really means.]

My fingers stiffened as I scrolled down.

Last holiday, Jess had told me she had to work overtime on a last-minute project, pulling an all-nighter. On Sonny's feed, there were two intertwined hands, fireworks lighting up the riverside behind them. On the woman's wrist was a small red mole—one I knew all too well.

On the last Valentine's Day, Jess had said her best friend was heartbroken and needed company. Sonny had posted a photo of two movie tickets—Before Sunset—with the caption: [Watching an old film with the one I love.]