No More Leftovers For Me

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Two years ago, my best friend Cheryl suddenly packed her bags and moved across the country, leaving a sticky note on my bathroom mirror:

Wren, eat up. Dont be a picky eater!

I didn't understand her words back then. But when I heard she was finally returning to Creek Cove, I was ecstatic.

I went downstairs to throw out the trash, only to spot Cheryl already back in our apartment complex.

Standing right in front of her was my fianc, Brody, who had told me he was at the gym.

He was holding her hand, guiding her fingers over the hard, defined lines of his abs. His voice was low, gravelly.

"Still being picky?"

Cheryls eyes swept over him, a slow, teasing smirk spreading across her face. "Wren has been eating very well, hasn't she?"

Brody let out a soft snort. "She doesn't know how to appreciate it like you do."

They walked away together, laughing and whispering.

That night, when he came home, he immediately slipped into the bathroom with his phone, just like he always did.

I opened his private Instagram accountthe one he thought I didn't know about, the one he kept strictly locked down.

A thousand progress pictures of his physique. Every single one of them tagged only Cheryl.

The most recent post was uploaded the exact day her flight landed.

The caption: "If you like it, when are you coming to get a taste?"

It took me two whole years to finally understand their sick little metaphor.

The rushing shower water muffled my crying.

Once the tears ran dry, I pulled out my phone and texted my mother:

Mom, Im coming home for the Regatta Matchmaking Festival this weekend. The wedding is off.

Brody finally emerged from the bathroom after an hour. He handed me a cold bottle of water.

"Why are your lips so dry? Have you been crying?"

That single question almost broke me again. I thought he was going to ask me why, but then Cheryls voice memo popped up on his screen.

Brody, Ive finalized the catering menu for your and Wrens rehearsal dinner and reception.

From the very first syllable, Brody's mouth curved into a smile that didn't fade.

"Whatever you decide is perfect," he typed back.

Then he turned the screen toward me. "Cheryl's back. She did us a huge favor and retooled our wedding menu."

My breath caught. Cheryl hadn't even told me she was back. And why was Brody letting an outsider dictate our wedding?

"Brody, I drafted that menu twelve times. Every single dish was chosen to honor both of our families' traditions here in Creek Cove."

"If Cheryl wants international cuisine, we can set up a separate table just for her."

The smile finally vanished from Brodys face.

"Your menu is too heavy. Cheryl's stomach was completely wrecked while she was living away. You're her best friend, shouldn't you know that?"

"Wren, stop being so selfish and always demanding things your way. Think about other people for once."

His "other people" only ever meant Cheryl.

And my careful planning, my attempt to please everyone, was dismissed as mere selfishness.

I locked my phone. He had changed his lock screen.

It was a picture of a half-eaten heritage hand pie.

I had baked it. But the faint lipstick smudge on the crust belonged to Cheryl.

Just this morning, I had asked him to take a picture of the pies I spent all night baking.

He had brushed me off. We make these every year, Wren. Why do you need a photo to remember it?

Of course. It was never about the hand pies. It was about the person eating them.

I tossed his phone back onto his lap. "If I can't have my own wedding the way I want it, then whose wedding is it?"

Brody looked at me in surprise. I rarely argued with him.

But his voice softened, offering a placating smile. "Come on, can't you just accommodate Cheryl this once?"

The word No rushed to the tip of my tongue, but suddenly, all the fight drained out of me.

He could spend two years working out just to please Cheryl, but he couldn't bear to let me have the menu I wanted for our wedding.

"Whatever," I muttered.

Relief washed over his face. He instantly grabbed his phone. "Cheryl's jet-lagged and wants me to hop on a game with her. Go to sleep first."

The door shut, and my tears fell in silence.

My pale lips weren't from crying. They were from the agonizing spasm in my stomach.

Three years ago, I underwent a partial gastrectomy. I've lived with chronic stomach pain ever since.

He had remembered that pain for three years, yet tonight, he suddenly forgot.

Over the weekend, Brody drove me to the wedding venue. I figured since I was the one who booked it, I should be the one to cancel it.

Midway through the drive, he swerved the car to pick up Cheryl.

"You've been standing out there forever. Weren't you hot?" Brody's tone was sharp, but his hand immediately reached to adjust the air conditioning vents for the back seat.

I looked between the two of them. "Why is Cheryl coming?"

Cheryl grabbed Brody's iced coffee and took a massive gulp straight from the straw, nearly choking.

"Wren, you don't mind me tagging along, do you? I promise I won't play third wheel."

Brody immediately bickered back, his tone intimate. "Cut the act. Who was the one blowing up my phone all morning begging to come scout the venue?"

Cheryl lightly kicked the back of his seat. "And who was the one who couldn't even copy-paste the address right? You sent me thirty wrong pins!"

They began bickering over how many texts they had exchanged. Cheryl won; Brody had sent her eighty pointless messages just that morning.

"Enough!" I blurted out.

The car went dead silent. Cheryl instantly lowered her head, her thumbs flying across her phone.

A moment later, Brody's fingers were tapping away at his own screen.

I put in my earbuds and turned up the music, tuning out their silent, digital flirting.

At the hotel venue, I slipped away from Brody to speak with the event manager about canceling our reservation.

When we finalized the paperwork, the manager said with genuine regret, "It's such a shame. Mr. Langford was just speaking with our bridal suite coordinator about ordering three more bridesmaid dresses..."

Hearing this, the last shred of hesitation I had evaporated.

I walked up to the bridal suite. Through the cracked door, the sound of their stifled laughter leaked out.

Brody gasped, "Cheryl, you greedy little thing!"

Cheryl was poking Brody's abs, giggling.

"Two years ago, I mentioned offhand that your core wasn't defined enough, and you immediately practically lived at the gym."

"You even FaceTimed me on New Year's Eve to show me your progress. Did you know Wren was sitting right next to me having dinner?"

My heart stopped.

She was talking about this past New Year.

Cheryl had been home for the holidays. My mother, seeing her eating instant ramen alone, had invited her over for dinner.

I had sent Brody a dozen photos of our holiday feast.

His reply was four words: At the gym.

My mother had asked hopefully, Can we call Brody to wish him a Happy New Year?

I called him five times. He declined every single one.

Meanwhile, Cheryl, sitting beside us, had nervously hidden her screen. My mother teased her, asking if she was talking to a boyfriend.

Cheryl had rolled her eyes. Yeah, he's just so clingy. I can barely stand it.

I caught a fleeting glimpse of her screen then. She hadn't replied for a minute, and he had already frantically called her.

My mother's eyes had dimmed. She squeezed my hand. Don't call him anymore, Wren. Brody must be busy.

But during the first seven years of our relationship, Brody was never too busy for me.

Even during the six months of my surgery and recovery, he had temporarily closed his photography studio just to be my twenty-four-hour caregiver.

Now, inside the suite, Brody let out a low groan, catching Cheryl's hand. "Stop playing... Wren is still..."

Before he could finish, I pushed the door open.

Brody scrambled upright. "Wren! Are all the venue details confirmed?"

Cheryl hopped off the bed. "Brody was trying to show off how strong he is. Wren, you have to take my side!"

I stared at the hand that had just been tracing his muscles. It was reaching out to touch my arm like a slithering snake.

"Don't touch me!" I snapped, slapping her hand away.

Her pale skin immediately flushed bright red.

Brody instinctively grabbed Cheryl's hand, his eyes flashing with sudden coldness.

"Wren, we were just joking around. What is wrong with you?"

Cheryl gently nudged him back. "Brody, don't blame her. It's my fault. I pushed it too far."

She looked at me, blinking innocently. "Wren, I got too used to how casual people are abroad. I forgot you're still a conservative, good little girl."

Brody frowned. "Good girl? More like an old-fashioned relic."

"Always sick, never wants to work out, never wants to go out, doesn't even use social media. My grandmother is livelier than her."

My stomach clenched in a sharp, burning spasm.

"Brody, do you even remember why I'm always sick?"

Three years ago, he went deep into the Alaskan wilderness to shoot a wildlife documentary on caribou migration. I went with him.

The schedule was brutal. He contracted high-altitude pulmonary edema and ended up hospitalized in Anchorage.

I picked up his heavy camera gear to finish the shoot for him, driving hundreds of miles back and forth between the hospital and the wild plains.

I skipped meals, barely slept, and the day we finally flew back, I collapsed with acute gastric bleeding.

He won an award for that documentary. I lost half my stomach.

"Wren, if you have an issue, just say it. You don't need to keep bringing up the past to guilt-trip me into yielding to you and Cheryl."

Brody's cold scoff dragged me back to the present.

I stared at him, dumbfounded.

He let out a heavy sigh, acting as though he was the one making a massive sacrifice.

"I guess this is what I get for marrying a girl from the River Settlement."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I tore my hand away from him.

He pulled up a chat screenshot Cheryl had forwarded him and showed it to me.

It was a message from my mother to Cheryl, saying my wedding would feature an eight-day community feast.

"An eight-day feast? That's going to cost tens of thousands of dollars," Cheryl had texted him. "Wren's mom really loves her, but she's treating you like a bottomless bank account."

Brody's expression grew even colder. "Wren, am I marrying you, or am I marrying your family's desperate need for social status?"

"Brody, you don't have to marry me at all. And I don't have to marry you."

I slipped my engagement ring off, set it on the vanity table, and walked out.

Cheryl chased after me. "Wren, the wedding is practically here. Can you grow up? Don't throw a tantrum just because of me."

I spun around, staring at her with cold fury. "Cheryl, where did that half-eaten hand pie go?"

She choked on her words.

"Brody ate it, didn't he?"

"Sharing a hand pie, sharing a water bottle, laying on the same bed with your best friend's fiancis that your idea of being grown up?"

The smirk on Cheryl's face crumbled. "Wren, you're counting pennies with me over a man?"

She unclasped the designer watch I had gifted her and threw it directly at my face. "If I wanted to be with Brody, you wouldn't have stood a chance in the first place!"

I covered my eye, feeling a sharp, burning pain where the watch had struck my temple.

Brody rushed over, instantly pulling Cheryl into his arms. "Calm down. Your stomach is already acting up from the travel. Don't let her get to you."

Then he looked at me, his eyes filled with exhaustion and boredom.

"Wren, tell your mom we'll host the eight-day feast. Are you happy now?"

"Take a cab home. I need to take Cheryl to the clinic."

Brody swept Cheryl up into his arms. The hallway was narrow, and as he pushed past, his shoulder shoved hard against mine.

I let go of my face. The blood from the cut on my temple mingled with my tears, wetting my cheek.

The hotel manager gasped, handing me a handkerchief. "Miss Barlowe, please don't cry. He isn't worth your tears."

My stomach was cramping so violently I could barely stand. Leaning against the wall, I managed a pale, hollow smile.

"He won't be anymore."

That night, Brody called to say Cheryl was hospitalized because of the stress I caused her, and he had to stay overnight to watch over her.

He was trying to cover his tracks, but I didn't care enough to expose him.

The next morning, my mother unexpectedly texted me, her tone bright.

Wren, I brought the traditional River Settlement bridal gown with me. Try it on so we can make any adjustments.

Bringing the gown was just an excuse; she was worried I was getting cold feet or dealing with trouble.

I went to meet her, but halfway there, she sent another message:

Cheryl knew I was coming and booked a bed-and-breakfast for me. Don't rush on the road.

A cold dread settled in my chest. I called my mother.

When she picked up, the background was filled with shouting and commotion.

Then, my mother's voice pierced through, sharp and terrified: Let go of me! I didn't steal anything!

"Mom!" I screamed, but the line went dead.

I redialed, but her phone was switched off.

In a panic, I was about to call the police when Cheryl's text arrived:

Wren, your mom is doing just fine with my girls.

Come over to the diner and pick up your ring first.

When I arrived at the local diner, Brody and his friends were all there.

Cheryl was seated in the center of the booth, and Brody was carefully blowing on a spoonful of clam chowder, feeding her.

"Brody, it's too hot!" she whined.

He blew on it again.

The table erupted into laughter. "Brody's already whipped, and they aren't even married yet."

"Honestly, only a wild card like Cheryl could tame him."

Brody shot them a warning look. "Keep spoiling her, and she'll be walking all over me for the rest of our lives."

"Brody, you're the one who ruined her. Don't blame us."

They laughed, but the humor died down when someone spotted me.

I marched straight to Cheryl, my rage boiling over. "Where is my mother?"

Clack.

Cheryl dropped her spoon against the rim of her bowl.

At her reaction, Brody immediately stood up, his face darkening as he looked at me.

"Can you stop being so hostile toward Cheryl?"

Then he noticed the cut near my eye. His irritation softened, and he stepped out of the booth, reaching out to touch my face. "How do you manage to get yourself hurt the second I'm not around?"

I slapped his hand away and kept my eyes locked on Cheryl. "Where is my mother?"

Cheryl didn't answer. Instead, she signaled the waitress.

Ten heavy, savory heritage hand pies were placed on the table.

She held up her pale, slightly swollen hands, her voice cracking.

"Wren, I baked ten savory hand pies for you as an apology."

"In the River Settlement, we have a traditionno matter how deep the grudge, eating the unity pies washes it all away."

"If you're willing to forgive me, eat them."

Brody, holding my engagement ring, nudged me.

"Cheryl dragged herself out of a hospital bed to bake these for you. Just eat them, apologize, and we can still go through with the wedding."

My eyes widened. "Brody, I had a partial gastrectomy."

Did he have any idea what eating ten heavy, dense pies would do to my stomach?

He avoided my gaze, muttering, "I'll go buy you some stomach medicine. If you don't eat them, Cheryl is just going to keep crying."

I let out a bitter, silent laugh. Between Cheryl crying and me dying, he chose her.

Cheryl flashed her phone screen at me.

Thinking of my mother, I stepped up to the table, squared my shoulders, and began to eat the pies, bite by agonizing bite.

Brody's friends whistled.

"Damn, Brody, you've got her well-trained. You promise her a wedding, and she'd lay down her life for you."

Seeing me eat so fast, Brody patted my back. "Slow down."

I nearly gagged.

My stomach was being stuffed to the brim, the pain radiating outwards in sharp, burning spasms.

Cheryl stuck her tongue out at Brody.

"See? I told you Wren loves playing the victim. Look at her go. Does that look like someone with a bad stomach?"

The hand on my back froze.

Brody asked, his voice suddenly hollow, "Wren... when did your stomach get better?"

I kept chewing the heavy, half-cooked dough, swallowing my defense along with the pain.

When the last bite was gone, my stomach felt like it was filled with lead.

I reached my hand out to Cheryl. "Give me the address."

Cheryl raised an eyebrow. "Sent."

I grabbed my phone to leave.

"Wren, you haven't apologized yet," Brody called out.

I turned back to look at them. I bowed my head and forced out every syllable:

"I'm sorry. It's my fault Cheryl got sick. I was being petty, and I didn't understand your jokes."

Only then did the tension leave Brody's shoulders. He slipped the ring back onto my finger.

"Don't take it off again. Since your mom is here, go spend time with her."

Drenched in cold sweat, I walked out of the diner.

The moment I reached the street, I ripped the ring off and threw it into the storm drain. I wanted nothing that belonged to Brody.

I found my mother at a local bed-and-breakfast.

She was clutching the traditional River Settlement bridal gown, cornered by Cheryl's friends.

"Ma'am, this dress belongs to Cheryl," one of them said, tugging at the fabric. "You can't just steal it when she's not home."

During the struggle, they pinned my mother's arms, and one of them ripped the gown away.

I shoved them aside and held my mother. Her arms were covered in scratches. I threatened to call the police.

Brody and Cheryl arrived shortly after.

Cheryl's friends immediately handed the gown to her. "Cheryl, we got it back for you."

"Cheryl, have you no shame?" my mother cried, her voice trembling. "This is the heirloom gown my daughter is supposed to wear. Since when does it belong to you?"

Cheryl had lost her own mother at a young age, and my mother had raised her like a second daughter, never speaking a harsh word to her.

"Auntie, Wren is cutting me out over a wedding menu," Cheryl wept, tears streaming down her face. "And now you're screaming at me over a dress?"

"I treated you like my own mother, and Wren like my sister. But over a dress, I'm suddenly an outsider."

Brody's brow furrowed. He reached out to wipe her tears.

"Wren, you have parents, you have me. Cheryl has no one."

"It's just a wedding dress. Why can't you just let her have it?"

My mother lunged forward to grab the dress. "Brody, this gown is a sacred family heirloom. If you don't cherish my daughter, someone else will!"

Brody glared at me, as if I had orchestrated the entire conflict.

"Wren, is the eight-day feast not enough? What else do you and your mother want? Just say it."

"There's no need to make a scene over a dress!"

Suddenly, Cheryl clutched the gown, turned, and ran into the backyard of the B&B.

Ignoring the metallic taste of blood rising in my throat, I ran after her.

In the yard, a brick fire pit was crackling. Flames licked the delicate fabric of the heirloom dress, and the twelve gold-embroidered wave patternssewn over generationswere turning to ash.

I reached into the fire, the heat searing my skin.

My mother threw her arms around me, sobbing. "Don't, baby! Let it go! Let it go!"

"But Grandma's gold charms are on this... the gold thread I stitched back on is on this..." I gasped, refusing to let go.

My mother threw herself toward the flames to pull it out, and in horror, I snapped out of my daze and pulled her back.

"Mom, okay, okay! We don't want it anymore! We don't want any of it!"

I looked back. Brody was holding Cheryl's hands, checking them for burns.

Sensing my gaze, his movements stiffened, and he sighed.

"Wren, the dress is gone. Cheryl was just upset that you guys were isolating her."

Cheryl reached out to pull my sleeve. "Wren, you've never stayed mad at me. We're still okay, right?"

I silently pulled away from her touch.

Seeing my cold, empty expression, panic finally flickered in Brody's eyes. He softened his voice.

"Wren, don't be mad. Go home first. Tomorrow, I'll take you to buy a brand-new designer dress."

The pain in my stomach was blinding. Leaning heavily on my mother, every step felt like a mile.

But step by step, I walked out of their lives.

Once we reached the main road, the adrenaline faded, and the world went black.

"Wren!"

During the two days I spent in the hospital recovering, Brody sent exactly three texts.

First: Cheryls stomach is acting up. Im staying with her at the hospital. Well pick out a dress tomorrow.

Second: Wren, are you seriously still throwing a tantrum? You haven't even come home.

Third: Cheryl said women from the River Settlement aren't supposed to see the groom five days before the wedding? Why didn't you tell me about this rule sooner?

I deleted them one by one, then helped my mother into a car heading back home.

The day before the wedding, Brody walked out of Cheryls apartment.

He opened his text history. My last message to him was from a week ago.

That day at the B&B, my face had been deathly pale. Was my stomach really acting up?

No, he reasoned, shaking his head. She had eaten those ten heavy hand pies without a problem. She was just playing the victim to get attention.

He laughed to himself. She was just being petty, still angry at him and Cheryl.

Suddenly, his group chat with his friends erupted with notifications, tagging him repeatedly.

Brody opened the chat, and his mind went completely blank.

Pictures of an elaborate, breathtaking waterfront celebration flooded the screen.

I was wearing a magnificent, hand-embroidered crimson bridal gown, standing at the bow of a decorated wooden ship.