The Long Island Expressway

I never called myself a simp, but my roommates certainly used the word. Looking back, my weekly routine had become entirely dictated by Chloe's casual whims and minor inconveniences.

• Tuesday, 11:30 PM: Chloe would text me that she was craving a specific matcha mille-crêpe cake from a bakery in Flushing. I’d get out of bed, take the N train, transfer to the 7, buy the cake, and Uber it straight to her apartment. She’d take it at the door with a sleepy, "You're a lifesaver, Marc," and close it. I’d take the subway back alone.

• Thursday, 2:00 PM: She’d mention needing to move a heavy mid-century modern dresser she bought off Facebook Marketplace from Greenpoint to her place. I’d take a half-day off work, rent a Zipcar cargo van using my own credit card, and do all the heavy lifting. Chloe would spend the afternoon on her phone, occasionally offering a supportive, "You're so strong, thank you!"

• Saturday, 9:00 PM: We’d go out for drinks with her friends at a trendy speakeasy. Chloe would "forget" her wallet. I’d eagerly step up and pay the $340 tab for the entire table, telling myself it was fine and that I was just being a gentleman.

The Breaking Point

The reality of the situation finally caught up with me on a rainy Friday in November.

Chloe called me in a panic. Her cat, a finicky Persian named Winston, needed a specific prescription food that was only in stock at a vet clinic in Staten Island. She didn't have a car, and the rain was making rideshare prices surge.

"Marc, please," she whined over the phone. "I'm right in the middle of a major client deadline and I really can't leave the apartment. Can you please go get it? I'll make it up to you, I promise. Maybe we can finally get dinner next week."

That last sentence was the hook. I had been trying to lock down an actual, official date with Chloe for months. Every other hangout had been a group event or a favor.

I braved the Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic on the Long Island Expressway, spending three grueling hours in a rented sedan to get to Staten Island and back to Williamsburg. The rain was torrential. The traffic was a miserable sea of red brake lights. My anxiety was through the roof, but I kept visualizing that dinner next week.

At 7:45 PM, soaked and exhausted, I knocked on Chloe’s door, holding the prescription cat food like a trophy.

The door opened. Chloe was wearing a stunning black dress, her makeup perfectly done, smelling of expensive perfume. Behind her, music was playing.

"Oh, Marc! You're amazing!" she said, snatching the bag from my hands.

Before I could even step inside out of the hallway, a tall, well-dressed man walked up behind Chloe, putting a casual hand on her waist. "Hey, babe, is the Uber here yet?" he asked.

Chloe turned to him, smiling. "No, this is Marc, the friend I told you about who was helping with Winston's food." She turned back to me, her expression a mix of gratitude and mild awkwardness. "Marc, this is Julian. Listen, thank you so much again. We're actually running late for a reservation at Carbone, so I have to run. I'll text you about that dinner sometime soon, okay?"

She gave me a quick, one-armed hug, squeezed my shoulder, and shut the door.

The Aftermath

I stood there in the brightly lit hallway of the Williamsburg high-rise, dripping wet, listening to the muffled sound of their laughter fading as they headed toward the building's elevator bank.

The walk back to my car felt miles long. As I sat in the driver's seat, watching the rain pelt the windshield, I looked at my phone. There was no text from Chloe checking if I got home safe. There was just a notification from my banking app showing the charge for the Zipcar rental and the $85 cat food.

I turned the key in the ignition, put the car in drive, and began the long, quiet ride back to Queens. I didn't block her number, but for the first time in six months, I didn't check my phone when it buzzed.