I said nothing.

I sat there, holding my wineglass, gripping the stem so tightly it hurt. The restaurant buzzed—birthday candles, low jazz, polished silverware, one of those upscale Atlanta steakhouses built for men with money and poor judgment. My boyfriend, Travis, sat at the head of the table, smiling beside his best friend Nolan, who had just turned thirty-two and clearly thought cruelty passed as humor after a few drinks.

For a year and four months, I had been the girl Travis brought everywhere.

I was “different,” he said. “Grounding.” “Not like those women who think brunch is a personality.” He loved telling people I was a public school teacher from Marietta, like proof he had depth. At first, I thought it was affection. Later, I realized he liked how I made him look in front of wealthier, louder people.

That night, the table was full of them—real estate men, finance wives, a plastic surgeon’s girlfriend, women who clearly avoided carbs. I was the only one with calluses from teaching and a salary that required planning before ordering drinks.

Earlier, someone asked where I worked.

Travis laughed. “She shapes young minds and then comes home and tolerates mine.”

Everyone smiled.

It should have warned me.

Then the conversation shifted—exes, dating mistakes, “knowing your level.” I should have known Travis would take it too far. He was relaxed, drinking, enjoying attention. Someone asked what dating outside your type teaches you.

That’s when he said it.

“Dating down really puts things into perspective. Now I know what I don’t want.”

Laughter.

A woman across from me said, “Stop,” but clearly didn’t mean it.

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