For illustrative purposes only
I’m Zach Reynolds, thirty-three, and for two years I thought I was building something real with Rebecca Collins. We weren’t teenagers sneaking around campus. We were adults with a shared grocery list, a shared couch, and a shared lease on a downtown apartment that cost too much but felt like a start. For fourteen months we’d lived together. I’d met her whole extended family: Christmas at her parents’ house, a cousin’s wedding, even her grandmother’s funeral, where I held her while she cried and told her we’d get through it.
So when I saw the Bumble icon on her screen at dinner, it didn’t land like a joke. It landed like a trapdoor.
We were at one of those overpriced Italian places she loved, the kind with dim lighting and menus that made you feel guilty for ordering anything without truffle in the description. I was halfway through chicken Marsala when her face lit up from a notification. The phone was angled toward me for a split second, and there it was-bright yellow, unmistakable. Bumble. She flipped the phone fast like she could erase what I’d already seen.
I didn’t slam my fork down. I didn’t raise my voice. I watched her chew, watched her sip water like nothing had happened, and I tried one last time to give the moment a normal explanation.
“So,” I said, keeping my tone light, “you’re still on dating apps?”
Rebecca laughed. Not nervous laughter. Real laughter, like I’d asked if the sky was blue.
“Yeah, obviously,” she said. “Why would I delete them?”
She shrugged and leaned back, completely at ease. “It’s just window shopping. Everyone does it.”
Everyone. Right.
I’d deleted my apps two months into dating her. It wasn’t a big conversation. It just felt standard when you start saying I love you and leaving toothbrushes at each other’s places. And now, after two years, she was telling me she’d kept the door unlocked the whole time.
“We’ve been together two years,” I said. “We live together.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes like I was being old-fashioned on purpose. “Oh my God, Zach. Don’t be so traditional. We’re not that serious.”
The words hung there between the breadsticks and her casual cruelty.
“We just split rent to save money,” she continued. “It’s not like we’re married. Stop being possessive.”
Not that serious.
For a second I felt heat rise up my neck, the kind that usually turns into a speech you regret. But what came instead was cold. A clean, quiet click in my mind, like a lock turning. She’d just rewritten our relationship into something temporary, something convenient. And if that was the story she wanted, then I didn’t have to protect the old one anymore.
I nodded slowly. “You know what? You’re absolutely right.”
That finally got her attention. She paused mid-bite, eyes narrowing, ready for a fight. Ready to label me insecure, jealous, controlling. But I didn’t give her a target. I smiled, asked about a Netflix show, paid the one-hundred-and-forty-dollar check, and drove us home like it was a normal Tuesday.
Rebecca went to bed early. I stayed up on the couch, staring at the dark TV screen, doing math that wasn’t about money.
On the couch I replayed the same argument I’d had with myself for months: night after night again anyway. Don’t be controlling. Don’t be insecure. Be the calm guy who trusts. I remembered how often I’d paid extra without mentioning it, how I’d said yes to another bill because she was ‘saving,’ how I’d laughed off jokes about ‘options,’ and how I’d been browsing engagement rings at lunch like a fool planning a surprise. None of that was proof of love to her; it was proof I was convenient. The more I tried to be easy, the easier I became to use. If she could keep dating apps and still call me her boyfriend, then my seriousness was a one-way street-and I was done walking it alone.
Two years is seven hundred and thirty days. In that time, I’d paid about seventy percent of our bills because she was “saving for her business,” a business that never materialized. I’d bought most of the furniture. I’d paid for a Hawaii trip last spring because she said she needed it after a “hard quarter.” I’d covered her car insurance for six months when she was “between jobs.” I’d been building a life.
She’d been keeping options.
Around midnight I texted my buddy Billy, a lawyer who handled landlord-tenant cases like other people handled traffic tickets.
Need to evict a girlfriend who’s not on the lease. What’s the process?
He replied in two minutes: 30-day notice in writing. Don’t be a jerk. Document everything. Call me tomorrow.
I didn’t sleep much. Rebecca kissed me goodbye the next morning like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just called our relationship “not that serious.” I kissed her back and watched her leave, then stood in the quiet apartment listening to the elevator doors close.
The moment her car pulled out, I opened Bumble.
The app felt almost ridiculous in my hands, like I was borrowing someone else’s life. But Rebecca had made the rules clear. Window shopping. Everyone does it. So I set up a profile with decent photos and a bio that was honest without sounding desperate. Within an hour, matches started rolling in. Turns out being thirty-three, employed, and not a disaster has market value.
And then I saw her.
Belle Collins. Rebecca’s younger sister.
I blinked at the screen like it was a glitch. Belle and I had always gotten along at family stuff. She laughed at my jokes instead of giving the polite smile Rebecca had perfected. We liked the same music, the same shows, the same dark humor. But she was Rebecca’s sister. Off-limits. Untouchable.
Except Bumble didn’t care about my moral guidelines.
Belle had super-liked me.
A super-like isn’t an accident. It’s a choice.
I stared at that little banner for a full minute, my thumb hovering over the match button. I heard Rebecca’s voice in my head: We’re not that serious. Just splitting rent. Stop being traditional.
Fine.
I matched.
The message came instantly: Um… Zach? What are you doing on here?
I typed back: Same thing your sister’s doing, apparently. Keeping my options open. We’re “not that serious,” according to her.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.
Wait, what? Belle wrote. She told us you two were basically engaged.
That sentence rearranged my stomach. Rebecca had been telling her family we were serious while telling me we weren’t. Playing both sides. Husband material on one side, placeholder on the other.
News to me, I wrote. I saw her Bumble icon last night. Asked her about it. She said it’s normal and I’m being possessive for caring.
Belle replied: That’s so messed up. I’m so sorry.
Don’t be sorry, I wrote. I’m adapting to her rules.
There was a pause, then: This is weird. We should probably unmatch.
Probably, I wrote.
But we didn’t.
We kept talking. Hours. At first it was outrage and disbelief, then it shifted into something easier. Belle told me Rebecca had been bragging about me-stable, responsible, “future husband”-while also showing Belle her Hinge matches and joking about “upgrading” someday. Belle thought it was just toxic talk, the kind of nonsense people say to sound cool. She didn’t realize Rebecca meant it.
Then Belle mentioned Sunday dinner.
“You’re still coming to my parents’ this Sunday at six, right?” she asked.
It was the first I’d heard of it. Of course Rebecca hadn’t told me. She hadn’t mentioned it because she thought she controlled the calendar, the narrative, the whole relationship.
Belle added: She confirmed for both of you yesterday. Mom’s making lasagna.
Lasagna. Family table. Everyone present.
I felt a grin spread across my face, sharp and involuntary. “This is going to be interesting,” I typed.
Belle replied: You thinking what I’m thinking?
That Sunday dinner is about to get really messy.
Absolutely, she wrote. This is karma, Zach. By the way, I’m wearing that red dress you complimented last Christmas.
Wednesday and Thursday became a master class in acting normal while preparing a strike.
Rebecca came home Wednesday with sushi from my favorite place, all smiles and affection, like the restaurant conversation hadn’t happened. She suggested a movie and curled into me on the couch. The whole time her phone kept buzzing. She swiped notifications away so fast I started counting. Seven in two hours. Window shopping while her head was on my shoulder.
I didn’t call her out. I documented.
Screenshots of her active profiles. Her bio bragging about “exploring options” and “not looking for anything serious.” I forwarded everything to my personal email, then to Billy.
Billy called me Thursday at lunch. “Dude,” he said, “this is cold-blooded.”
“She doesn’t think it’s cheating,” I said. “Apparently it’s normal.”
“It’s psychotic,” he replied. “Okay. California is a pain, but she’s not on the lease, so she’s month-to-month. Thirty days written notice. I’ll draft it. We’ll notarize it. You serve it properly. That way when she screams illegal eviction, you’re covered.”
“What about her stuff?”
“Anything she paid for, she can take,” Billy said. “Anything you paid for stays. Get receipts.”
I had receipts. Venmo. Zelle. Credit card statements. The TV, couch, kitchen table, mattress-my money. My name.
“Beautiful,” Billy said. “And Zach… don’t sleep with the sister.”
“I wasn’t even thinking-”
“I know,” he cut in. “Just saying. Don’t give Rebecca ammo.”
He was right. Belle and I kept texting constantly, but it stayed clean. No flirting that could be screenshot and weaponized. Just real conversation. She told me about her job, her bad ex, her dream trip to Japan. I told her about my work, my annoying boss, the motorcycle I’d been saving for. It felt natural, like talking to someone who didn’t treat relationships like shopping carts.
Friday afternoon Rebecca finally mentioned dinner, super casual. “By the way, dinner at my parents’ Sunday, six. Wear the blue shirt.”
“Sure thing,” I said. “Looking forward to it.”
She looked surprised I agreed so easily. Good. Let her feel safe.
Saturday, Billy came by with the notice. Official letterhead. Notarized. The whole deal.
“Thirty days from the date you serve this,” he said, tapping the paper. “If she refuses to leave, you file for formal eviction and a sheriff escorts her out. But most people don’t let it get that far.”
“She’s going to lose her mind,” I said.
“Oh, absolutely,” Billy replied. “Which is why you serve it Monday, not at her parents’ house. No one can accuse you of causing a scene at dinner.”
Belle texted that night: Ready for tomorrow’s disaster?
Been ready, I wrote.
Then another message came: There’s something you should know before tomorrow.
What?
Why Rebecca and I don’t really get along. It’s not just sister stuff. Three years ago she slept with my boyfriend.
I stared at the screen.
Yep, Belle wrote. At my apartment while I was at Grandma’s funeral. She told me it “just happened” and I needed to get over it because “sisters before misters.” My parents made me forgive her because family is forever. But I never forgot. And now she’s doing the same thing to you.
I typed slowly: I’m sorry. I had no idea.
Don’t be sorry, Belle wrote. Just don’t back out tomorrow. She needs to learn actions have consequences.
I wasn’t backing out. Not a chance.
Sunday morning I hit the gym, came home, showered, put on the blue shirt. Rebecca spent two hours getting ready, cycling through outfits, asking if she looked okay. I told her she looked great. Let her feel pretty. Let her feel untouchable.
In the car she talked nonstop about work drama-someone gunning for her position, her boss being unfair, how she deserved more. I made sympathetic noises and drove. It felt like listening to someone complain about a leak while the house was already on fire.
We pulled up at 5:45. Belle’s car was already there. So was Tony’s truck-Rebecca’s older brother, a contractor I’d always liked. Tony didn’t get involved in drama often, but when he did, people listened.
Andrea, their mom, opened the door with her usual enthusiasm. Hugs, compliments, questions about work. Rick, their dad, did his two-handed handshake and called me “son.” They were decent people who’d raised one broken kid out of three.
I felt bad about what was coming. Not bad enough to stop it.
Belle walked into the living room in the red dress and, yeah, it was a statement. Elegant but dangerous. She hugged me a second too long and whispered, “Game on.”
We sat for dinner. Appetizers. Salad. Normal conversation. The calm before impact.
Halfway through the lasagna, Belle cleared her throat.
“Mom,” she said, “I saw something weird on Thursday.”
Here we go.
“What’s that, honey?” Andrea asked.
“Rebecca’s profile popped up on my Bumble feed,” Belle said.
Silence dropped over the table like a blanket. You could hear the clock in the hallway.
Rebecca forced a laugh. “That’s an old profile. Those apps never really delete your account.”
“It said active today,” Belle replied, pulling out her phone. “And these photos are from your Hawaii trip this year with Zach.”
She held up the screen. Rebecca’s profile. “Active 2 hours ago.” Bio: exploring options.
Rick’s face hardened. “Rebecca… what is this?”
“It’s nothing,” Rebecca said quickly. “I just never deleted it.”
Andrea turned toward me, genuine concern in her eyes. “Zach, did you know?”
“I found out Tuesday,” I said calmly. “I asked her about it. She told me we’re ‘not that serious’ and it’s normal to stay on dating apps while living together. She said everyone does it.”
Andrea’s voice jumped. “Not that serious? You’ve been together two years!”
I shrugged. “Apparently I misunderstood the assignment.”
Tony stared at Rebecca like she’d grown a second head. “Becca, what the hell?”
Rebecca snapped, “This is none of your business.”
Belle leaned forward. “It became my business when Zach and I matched on Thursday.”
The table exploded.
Rebecca’s face cycled through red, white, and something close to purple. “What?”
“Yeah,” Belle said, almost cheerful. “Super weird timing. But you said it’s normal, so I figured it was fine. Right, Zach?”
I took a sip of water. “Just following Rebecca’s rules.”
Rebecca shot up so fast her chair scraped. “You matched with my sister!”
“She super-liked me first,” I said. “Seemed rude not to match.”
“How dare you!”
“How dare I follow your logic?” I asked. “You’ve been on three apps for two years. I’ve been on them for three days.”
Tony stood, hands out. “Okay. Everyone calm down.”
“Calm down?” Rebecca shrieked. “He matched with Belle!”
Belle leaned back, unbothered. “You slept with Ryan in my apartment while I was at Grandma’s funeral.”
The room went dead quiet.
Andrea’s mouth opened. Rick’s face turned red. Tony muttered, “Good grief.”
“That was three years ago!” Rebecca screamed.
“Yeah,” Belle shot back, “and I’m still waiting for a real apology. But hey-family is forever, right? That’s what Mom said. So I’m sure you’ll get over this the same way I was told to get over you stealing my boyfriend.”
Andrea looked like she might pass out. “Belle…”
“Mom, I’m done,” Belle said, voice steady. “Rebecca takes what she wants and expects everyone to deal with it. She did it to me, she’s doing it to Zach, she’ll do it to the next guy.”
Rebecca lunged across the table, rage overtaking her. Tony caught her midair and held her back. “Nope,” he grunted. “We’re not doing this.”
Rick’s voice cut through, low and terrifying. “Rebecca. Sit down. Now.”
Rebecca froze, then collapsed into her chair, mascara streaking. Tears poured down her face, but it didn’t look like regret. It looked like the shock of consequences.
Rick turned to me. “Zach… I’m sorry you wasted two years on my daughter.”
“I appreciate that,” I said.
Rebecca snapped, “He’s the jerk here!”
“No,” Andrea said firmly. “You are. We raised you better than this.”
Tony nodded. “This has to stop.”
Rebecca looked around for an ally and found none. She grabbed her purse and stormed out, sobbing as the front door slammed.
The silence afterward was thick.
Finally Tony exhaled. “Well. That happened.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to Andrea and Rick. “I didn’t mean to blow up dinner.”
“Don’t apologize,” Rick said. “This needed to happen.”
We finished dinner in awkward pieces. I helped clear plates. Tony and I had a quick drink out back while the women talked inside.
“For what it’s worth,” Tony said, “I always thought you were too good for her. And Belle’s the good one.”
“Right now we’re just friends,” I said.
Tony smirked. “Sure you are. Just don’t mess it up.”
Monday morning, I served the notice.
Rebecca stumbled out of the bedroom around seven, eyes swollen, face tight. I slid the manila envelope across the counter like a final receipt.
“You have thirty days,” I said. “It’s legal. Notarized. You’re not on the lease.”
She stared at it, shaking. “You can’t do this.”
“I can,” I said. “And I am.”
She started to cry, then to bargain, then to rage. I didn’t engage. I sipped my coffee, grabbed my work bag, and left her with the one thing she’d never had to hold before: accountability.
As I locked the door behind me, my phone buzzed.
A message from Belle: Proud of you. Don’t let her rewrite the story.
I wouldn’t argue for a place in her life that she kept advertising as available. For once, silence in the apartment wouldn’t be lonely. It would be mine, and it would be honest.
I walked to my car feeling something I hadn’t felt in months.
Free.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
