In Her Contacts, I'm Just a Number

I returned alone to the new apartment we were preparing for my engagement with Marianne Kirby next month.

The place was piled high with party favors and invitations, all of which Marianne had left entirely in Jeremiah Cochran's hands.

This was supposed to be one of the biggest milestones of my life, yet everywhere I looked, his presence was everywhere.

The invitations were supposed to go out tomorrow.

Marianne thought my handwriting looked too childish and lacked the elegance the occasion called for. Since Jeremiah had studied calligraphy, she decided he should address the invitations instead.

I hadn't objected at the time. After all, who wrote the names on the invitations didn't seem all that important.

I walked into the study, where a neat stack of sealed red envelopes sat at the desk.

I pulled one out and opened it.

Marianne's name was listed as the bride-to-be. But in the space for the groom-to-be, in glaringly clear letters, was Jeremiah's name.

Marianne walked in, her coat still carrying the faint smell of hospital disinfectant.

"I was worried you'd feel worse with that fever, so I put off work to come home early. Why haven't you even replied to my WhatsApp messages?"

Before she could say anything else, she noticed the invitation in my hand.

"Jerry accidentally copied the wrong names from an old template when he was formatting the invitations on his computer. I was just about to tell you."

"We can have them reprinted tomorrow," I said hoarsely.

Marianne frowned slightly and placed a hand on the stack of invitations. She looked at me, her tone earnest.

"Reprinting all those invitations would delay everything by at least a week. I'll have someone add a photo of us to the outside of each envelope. There's no need to turn a small, fixable mistake into something that embarrasses everyone. Jerry already feels terrible about it."

Suddenly, the phone on the table rang.

The video call connected, and Jeremiah's face appeared on the screen.

As the camera shifted, he casually stretched out his legs, revealing a brand-new pair of limited-edition sneakers.

I recognized those sneakers.

Marianne had come home late the night before last. She casually mentioned that she'd been passing through the mall with a client when she spotted a pair of sneakers she liked and decided to buy them.

I'd assumed they were for me. Only now did I learn they already belonged to someone else.

On the other end of the call, Jeremiah gave me an apologetic smile.

"Mitchell, I'm really sorry about the invitations. It was my own carelessness. I used a template I'd made for a friend before and forgot to change the names."

Marianne didn't deny it, and Jeremiah quickly added, "To make it up to you, I'll cover all the engagement party favors. I've already picked out some whiskey gift sets. Marianne loves whiskey, so I'm sure the guests will like them too."

I looked at Marianne.

She didn't like whiskey at all. The first time she'd tried it, she'd grimaced and gulped down half a glass of water. In fact, Jeremiah was the one who liked it.

He'd put his own name in the groom-to-be's place, worn the sneakers she'd bought, and chosen a gift that suited his own taste. In a few more days, perhaps he'd even decide who the groom at our wedding would be.

When Marianne saw that I wasn't saying anything, she reached out and brushed the back of my hand.

"Jeremiah meant well. Can we just leave the invitations as they are? Please?"

I'd once been very familiar with that tone of hers.

Three years ago, when she first took me home to meet her family, her father, Ernie Kirby, hadn't liked me.

That night, she'd held my hand outside the house and promised that no matter what anyone else thought, she would always save a place for me.

Later, at dinner, Mr. Kirby actually had my chair removed. Without saying a word, Marianne simply brought over another chair and placed it beside her own.

I'd remembered that chair for three years.

I looked at the invitations and nodded slightly.

Marianne visibly relaxed. She casually patted my shoulder, and I didn't pull away.

After that, she remained in the study, while I headed to the balcony.

Robin Pollard, the manager handling our engagement party, answered my call almost immediately.

If I wasn't the groom-to-be named on the invitations, there was no point in holding the party either.

I'd only halfway finished packing my suitcase when a sudden, cramping pain twisted through my stomach. I stumbled my way to the study door, which had been left slightly ajar.

I was just about to call out to Marianne for help when I heard her gently say, "That's enough. You know you can't hold your alcohol, so why did you drink so much?

"I've ordered you some hangover medicine for delivery. You'd better take it, or I'll come over myself later and make sure you take it."

I swallowed the words on the tip of my tongue. Then, I called a cab and went to the ER alone.