My period cramps were so bad I couldn’t get out of bed, so I asked my boyfriend to run to the store for some tampons. He turned around and posted a photo of me curled up in pain on his Instagram Story, meant for his "Close Friends" list. “Bro, who understands this? GF makes me buy her tampons, I ask her to Venmo me the $10 back, and I’m the bad guy?” The replies to his story were ruthless. “She acting up again? I got your back, bro! Going Dutch is the only way. Don’t let these females walk all over you!” “Why should you pay for her bleeding? She’s just using you for a free ride!” Keeping our relationship "50/50" was his idea—to keep things "pure," he claimed. For the past year we’d been dating, everything from expensive dinners to a single bottle of water was split down to the exact decimal point on Venmo. Except, it was always on his terms. Clearly, this wasn’t the first time he’d posted something like this. He just forgot to hide it from me this time. Looking at those disgusting comments, a lump formed in my throat. So, we’re strictly going Dutch, huh? Fine. Two can play that game. 1 My fingers trembled as I refreshed his page, trying to convince myself that maybe Brandon was just trolling. But the more I scrolled through the replies, the colder my heart got. Line by line, it was nothing but a mockery of me. “Bro is speaking facts! 50/50 or nothing!” “I’d ask for the money back too. Why should guys be walking ATMs?” “She’s seriously crying over $10? And she made you play delivery boy?” I clicked his profile picture again and again. Three times. Five times. There was no mistake. It was Brandon, the man I’d been with for a year. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. Over a ten-dollar box of tampons, I had become a "gold digger" in the eyes of his frat-bro friends. And Brandon? He was the poor, victimized boyfriend. Refusing to let it go, I logged into my burner account. Since it wasn't blocked from his main feed, I could see everything. A sickeningly detailed "Dating Ledger" was plastered all over his highlights. Every post felt like a slap in the face. There was a post from the day I got my bonus and treated him to a $300-a-head steakhouse. He posted a picture of the Starbucks coffee he bought me the next day with the caption: “Equality in relationships. The perfect 50/50.” There was my birthday, when he took me to the pier to watch the fireworks. He took gorgeous photos of me, raking in comments about how "romantic" he was. He conveniently left out that the limited-edition sneakers I bought him that morning cost $800. Everything I gave Brandon was carefully chosen and expensive. What he gave me was always "sentimental" garbage—a cheap keychain from a carnival game, or a buy-one-get-one-free phone case from Temu. Just yesterday, he used a coupon to get a $3 pack of paper towels for free, then Venmo requested me for $1.50. I had brushed it off, thinking he was just overly meticulous about finances. Now that I thought about it, whenever the first of the month rolled around to pay rent and utilities for our shared apartment, his banking app conveniently "crashed," leaving me to quietly cover the whole thing. I’d never held it against him. I genuinely thought he was just a frugal guy saving for our future. Clutching my phone, a chill washed over me. I couldn’t tell if it was the period cramps or the sickening realization of the truth. One comment under his post made my blood run cold. “Brandon is taking the crown for the 'Zero-Dollar Dating Challenge' this year! That $5k prize pool is yours, man. You gotta treat the boys to drinks!” Brandon’s reply: “Don’t worry, once her cramps are gone, I’ll make her pay for dinner. I’ll treat her to a $10 Chipotle bowl later. Massive ROI on this one.” My stomach violently turned. I thought his strict 50/50 rule was about building an equal partnership. I didn't realize I was just a row on his Excel spreadsheet. What I thought was a two-way street was just him treating me like a low-risk, high-yield stock. Money really is a mirror. It shows whether someone is afraid of not giving you enough, or afraid you’re asking for too much. Trembling, I opened our text thread and typed out: Let’s break up. But wait. Just breaking up? That was letting him off way too easy. My thumb hovered over the send button, then I slowly backspaced. Just as I deleted the last letter, the front door clicked open. Brandon strolled in, sipping a Coke, and tossed the box of tampons onto the coffee table. 2 “Babe, you still hurting? Let me make you some hot tea,” he said smoothly. “Oh, by the way, just Venmo me $15. Ten for the tampons, and I bought myself a Coke as a delivery fee. I won’t charge you a service tax though.” He chuckled at his own joke and turned toward the kitchen. Staring at his back, I felt a wave of dizziness. My cramps were always severe, and Brandon used to always jump up to make me tea. He even watched YouTube videos on acupressure to rub my lower back when it got really bad. “Women have it so hard,” he used to say. “Seeing you in pain makes me hurt too.” Back then, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. I thought I’d finally found a good one. I didn't realize his "gentleness" was a cheap act funded entirely by my bank account. He handed me the mug, snapping me out of my thoughts. Suppressing the urge to throw the hot water in his face, I took it and forced a pale smile. “I feel a lot better. You know what? To thank you, let’s go out for a massive seafood lunch. My treat.” His eyes instantly lit up. He practically hopped over to the sofa, rubbing his hands together with a grin stretching ear to ear. “Seriously? That’s awesome. Hey... do you mind if I invite a couple of the guys? We haven't hung out in a while. It’ll be fun, and we can all get crab!” I opened my mouth, then shut it, nodding sweetly. “Whatever you want! The more the merrier.” While he turned his back to call his frat brothers, I quickly texted my best friend, Harper. “Emergency. I’m staying at your place tonight. Pick me up after work.” Harper replied instantly: “Staying over? Trouble in paradise? Did Mr. Excel Spreadsheet finally snap?” “I’ll explain later. It’s worse than you think.” I curled up on the sofa, watching Brandon out of the corner of my eye. He was practically vibrating with excitement on the phone, no doubt calculating how much he could milk out of my wallet today. By noon, Brandon’s three "bros" from the comment section were waiting outside. They exchanged smirks the second they saw me. Brandon proudly threw an arm over my shoulder, puffing his chest out. “Alright boys, order whatever you want today! Don’t hold back. Right, babe?” I nodded, playing the role of the sweet, clueless girlfriend perfectly. “Exactly! Eat up! Don’t be shy.” We piled into my Porsche Macan and headed straight for the most expensive waterfront seafood spot in the city. The kind of place where the lobster is flown in daily and you don't get out for less than $200 a person. As soon as I parked, my phone buzzed. A Venmo request from Brandon. “Hey babe,” he said, tapping his phone. “The IRS mileage rate is 67 cents a mile. We drove about 10 miles, so I just requested $6.70 for the gas. I don't want to owe you anything!” The guys snickered in the backseat. “Brandon, you’re wild for that,” one of them said. “Hey, we keep it fair,” Brandon grinned. Once inside, the boys flocked to the fresh catches like vultures. King crab, premium oysters, massive lobsters... they pointed at the most expensive items on the ice. They even ordered imported sparkling water. 3 Brandon wasn’t done. He pointed at the top-shelf wine list. “Let’s get two bottles of the Cabernet! It’s a celebration, right?” He turned to me. “Babe, what do you want?” I waved my hand gently. “Oh, nothing for me. I can’t eat seafood, remember? You guys go ahead.” He was already looking back at the menu. “What? It’s too loud in here.” I just smiled and played hostess. Once we sat down, I poured Brandon’s water, handed him napkins, and played the doting girlfriend. “Babe, seafood is too heavy for you when you’re cramping. I ordered you a side of clam chowder, but I had them take the clams out,” he announced proudly. “Damn, Brandon, boyfriend of the year!” one of his friends cheered. Brandon soaked it up, completely losing himself in the praise. He started bragging about his "50/50 philosophy." “It takes discipline, boys. Like on Chloe's birthday. I took her to the pier, bought some sparklers, took some aesthetic photos. Boom. Way more meaningful than a Gucci bag, right?” “You gotta find a girl who gets it,” he continued, gesturing at me. “We split everything. Dinners, rent, down to the Uber rides. Strict 50/50.” He gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled back, looking like a woman blinded by love. “Wait, how do you split a pizza?” one guy asked, laughing. “Easy. Count the slices. Or just pay for your own toppings.” I kept smiling, though a storm was raging in my head. The sparklers for my birthday? I bought them. He said "I'm not the one holding them" and made me pay the $15. Our matching anniversary iPhones? I bought them. His gift to me was the plastic case they came in. Plates of steaming, garlic-buttered seafood began flooding the table. The guys dug in like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. I took a few sips of my potato soup, then stood up, grabbing my purse. “Where are you going, Chloe? The lobster just got here!” one of the guys called out with his mouth full. The table went quiet. Eight eyes snapped to me. “Just running to the restroom,” I said softly. Brandon rolled his eyes and waved his crab cracker at me. “Girls take forever in the bathroom. Let her go, let’s eat before it gets cold.” The guys laughed and immediately went back to tearing apart crab legs. Once they were stuffed, leaning back and groaning about food comas, Brandon finally realized I hadn't come back. “Where the hell is she?” he muttered. He stood up, walked toward the restrooms, and called my name. Nothing. Annoyed, he reached onto the table to grab "my" phone to call me—and froze. 4 “Wait... this is my phone!” Brandon yelled. “I thought this was hers!” The three friends exchanged nervous glances. Brandon’s hands started shaking as he grabbed his phone and dialed my number, trying to sound calm. “Babe? Where are you? You’ve been in the bathroom forever. We’re waiting for you.” I slowly pushed open the private dining room door, stepping inside. I sneered internally, but my face remained perfectly blank. “It was stuffy in here. I went outside for some fresh air. What, did you think I was going to dine and dash?” Brandon’s face cycled from red to white. He awkwardly let go of my arm. “N-no, of course not. Just worried about you. Lots of weirdos outside.” Trying to ease the tension, he pointed at the destroyed table. “Babe, the lobster was incredible. What was your favorite? We should definitely come back.” I looked at the absolute carnage on the table. Empty shells, picked-clean claws, empty wine bottles. Then I pointed to my pristine, spotless plate. “I wouldn't know. I didn't eat any of it. I'm allergic to shellfish.” Brandon blinked, processing this. Then he smacked his forehead with a forced, dramatic groan. “Oh my god, I completely forgot! I am so sorry, babe. Tell you what, I am cooking you dinner tonight to make up for it. My treat.” Looking at his exaggerated performance, I just felt exhausted. “It’s fine. I’m tired. Let’s pay the bill and go home.” I flagged down the waiter and asked for the check. Taking the leather folder, I pulled out my card. “Let’s see... I had the potato soup, which was $15. Plus the $5 seating fee. That’s $20.” I tapped my card on the machine, the screen flashing Approved. I slid the leather folder over to Brandon. “I paid for my half. Your turn.” Brandon’s smile instantly vanished. He stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. He slowly looked down at the receipt. His eyes bugged out. His voice cracked into a high pitch. “One thousand, two hundred dollars?!” He practically jumped out of his chair, grabbing my arm again. “Wait, babe... you’re making me pay this?” Oh, sweetie. You’re breaking down over the appetizers? I have a whole main course planned for you.
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