Ditching Her When the Storm Comes In

During a typhoon alert, Joyce Lane calls me and tells me to pick her up from her company.

On the way there, I receive a text from her. "You don't have to pick me up anymore. I'm going to stay over at Fin's place for a few days."

I opt not to start anything with her. Instead, I calmly text back, "Okay."

In the middle of the night, Finley Jones, Joyce's junior at work, uploads a social media post that's meant for my eyes only.

Joyce can be seen huddling against Finley while feeding him some snacks in the photo. The window outside depicts a storm.

The caption writes, "It's only befitting for me to tide out the worst weather with the woman I love the most."

I leave a like on the photo calmly. Suddenly, Joyce calls me and demands what that like means.

I reply coolly, "It means we're breaking up."

On the third day after the typhoon passed, Joyce Lane finally contacted me.

The text read, "Come pick me up at Fin's place. He's busy—can't drive me back."

In the past, whenever she called, I would drop everything and go.

This time, I replied while waiting for my oatmeal to finish cooking. "Just take a cab."

Half an hour later, Joyce dragged her suitcase through the door, her face dark with irritation. "I just got home, and you're already eating?"

I paused, spoon halfway to my mouth, and looked up at her, confused.

With an impatient huff, Joyce shrugged off her coat. "Stop eating and wash the clothes in my suitcase first. The power at Fin's house got knocked out by the typhoon yesterday. I didn't even get to shower."

With that, she walked toward the bathroom.

"I'm busy. Just toss them in the washing machine," I said evenly.

Joyce stopped in her tracks. She frowned, glaring at me with clear displeasure. "Harry, are you done sulking yet? The typhoon was dangerous. You were taking forever to get there, so I stayed at Fin's. What's the matter? Does my safety mean nothing to you? Or are you seriously that jealous?"

I swallowed the last spoonful of oatmeal, carried the bowl to the kitchen, and chose not to argue.

But Joyce kept staring at me. After a moment, as if she'd figured something out, she started scolding me again. "You're still hung up over that post on my Instagram feed, aren't you? I already told you—it was just a joke.

"The second he saw you'd liked it, he panicked and deleted it. He even asked me to explain it to you. You're a grown man. Why are you being so petty with a youngster like him?"

I almost laughed. Finley Jones was 28—only a year younger than me. Somehow, in her eyes, he was a youngster, and I was a grown man.

The conversation was going nowhere. I cleaned up the dishes and said calmly, "I really don't have time to wash your clothes. I'm heading out."

Joyce