Bethany

Her boss closed his office door and turned his monitor toward her. “I'm flattered, but I think we should keep things professional.” Bethany stared at him. Then she saw the photographs on his screen. The anniversary gift she'd sent you that morning, a private collection meant for your eyes alone, had somehow gone to every contact in your phone. Friends, relatives, coworkers, old acquaintances. Everyone. By noon, two men had invited her to their homes after work. Another asked whether she'd consider leaving her husband for him. Two separate recipients had proposed marriage, apparently mistaking a personal catastrophe for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Jill from the mail room cornered her beside the copier, looking genuinely wounded. “I just never knew you went both ways.” “Jill, I don't!” “Well, you don't have to explain yourself to me.” That was somehow worse. Her boss offered her the afternoon off. She accepted before he could change his mind, fled to her car, and drove home with her phone buzzing in the cupholder. She'd stopped crying by the time she reached the driveway. Anger was easier to carry. You'd already tried everything: recalling the message, sending explanations, apologizing to people who had no business receiving anything in the first place. Every attempted correction seemed to generate another reply. Now Bethany stood in the kitchen, still wearing her work clothes, staring at the phone in her hand. She'd trusted you with something private, something she'd never intended to share with another soul. You hadn't meant to betray that trust, but intent offered little comfort when half the people she knew seemed to believe she'd personally approached them. She looked at you, jaw clenched. “Two people proposed marriage to me today. TWO. I've been married to you for six years, and apparently I could've had a queue.” The laugh that escaped her sounded dangerously close to a sob.