The Invisible Girlfriend Chapter 1

To keep the campus queen from feeling threatened, my three childhood friends made a collective demand: for the duration of our trip, I had to be nothing more than my boyfriend’s bro.

"Come on, the five of us grew up together," Zach had reasoned, leaning against the kitchen counter with an easy, dismissive shrug. "You and Beckett are the only ones who crossed the line and ruined the dynamic. What if Vanessa thinks the rest of us are into you, too?"

"Please, Hannah," Rowan had begged, his hands clasped together in mock prayer. "Just play along. For us."

And Beckett—my boyfriend of five years, the boy who had held my hand in movie theaters before our palms ever learned to sweat—had agreed without a second thought.

"It makes sense," he’d said, not even looking at me. "We're a package deal. We can't let things get weird."

So I played the part. I threw myself into the role with an earnestness that bordered on self-destruction.

During our spring camping trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains, while the boys angled their phones to catch Vanessa in the golden hour, laughing as the wind caught her hair, I was sent up the ridge alone to gather dry firewood. The trail was slick with wet pine needles. My boot caught on an exposed root, and I tumbled twenty feet down a rocky ravine. It took three months of physical therapy before my knee stopped throbbing in the rain.

When we took group photos at the botanical gardens, they pulled the makeup artist aside and quietly asked her to tone me down so Vanessa wouldn't have to compete. When the prints arrived, I stood at the far edge of the frame, washed out in harsh light, a muddy mustard eyeshadow smeared across my lids like a bruise nobody cared to explain.

Now, we were on Nantucket for a long weekend. The three boys had made a pact: they would all confess their feelings to Vanessa on the exact same day. The deal was simple. Whoever she picked got to date her; the other two promised to swallow their pride and remain brothers for life.

I thought this suffocating pantomime was finally reaching its final act.

I stood on the windswept dunes, watching the three of them lay their hearts at her feet against the gray ocean backdrop. But Vanessa didn't give them an answer. She lingered, her manicured fingers twisting a strand of soft blonde hair, her gaze drifting past them until it landed squarely on Beckett.

Perhaps it was time for me to take my final bow.

Vanessa looked at him, her hazel eyes glistening with rehearsed vulnerability.

"Beckett," she murmured softly. "The one I actually want is you. Will you be with me?"

Beckett’s eyes flickered to mine for less than a second before sliding away toward the rolling tide.

"Vanessa, I don't want to turn you down," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, gentle cadence he used when he wanted to sound magnanimous. "It’s just... a confession isn't something a girl should have to do first."

He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no.

Vanessa blinked, her lips curving into a slow, satisfied smile. "All right. Then I'll be waiting for you."

A dull, ringing shock expanded behind my ribs.

We had known each other for twenty years. We had been lovers for five.

When our SAT scores came back and mine were lower than expected, Beckett intentionally turned down Vanderbilt just so he could enroll at the same state school as me, insisting that four years without seeing my face every morning wasn't a life worth living. In the brutal chill of our first shared winter, when my eczema flared and my cheeks cracked raw from the wind, he spent twenty minutes every night carefully slicing fresh aloe leaves, smoothing the cool gel over my skin until the burning stopped.

I had expected him to look Vanessa in the eye and say, I'm sorry. I have a girlfriend.

How foolish of me. I had forgotten that in the sacred hierarchy of Beckett Hayes, the boys' approval reigned supreme. How could he ever humiliate Vanessa when the whole fraternity of his childhood was watching?

I parted my lips to speak, but Zach caught my forearm, his grip firm and warning.

"Hannah, don't blow this," Zach hissed under his breath. "Beckett’s just smoothing things over. If he doesn't bring you up, it proves our circle is completely platonic."

Foster leaned in from the other side, his voice a low drone. "He didn't say yes, did he? Stop being so dramatic."

Rowan looked at me with open desperation. "Think about our happiness for once, Hannah. We’ve been chasing her for six months. Don't ruin it right at the finish line."

I opened my mouth, then closed it. The salt air felt cold and metallic on my tongue.

A year ago, I would have fought. I would have demanded answers, pulled Beckett aside by his collar, and made him look at me. But standing there on that cold beach, listening to their low, frantic justifications, I felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle into my marrow.

I was so tired of playing the bro.

Beckett jogged back over to us, hands shoved into the pockets of his fleece, his breath pluming white. "What are you guys whispering about? The acoustic set at the harbor pavilion starts in twenty minutes."

Zach pulled out his phone. "Shit, almost forgot. Let me grab the mobile passes. Vanessa’s been dying to see this indie band."

He tapped the screen, then paused, looking up at me with an awkward grimace.

"Uh, guys? There’s only five tickets left in the general admission section."

Vanessa pouted, her lower lip trembling with practiced disappointment. "No way... I've been looking forward to this all summer. You guys promised you’d come with me."

Foster immediately jumped in to soothe her. "Don't worry, princess. There isn't a problem we can't solve."

Rowan cast a sideways glance at me. "Honestly, Hannah has never cared about folk music anyway. She’s too much of a tomboy to sit through an acoustic set. She’d probably rather chill at the cottage."

I looked Rowan straight in the eye. "Actually, I really wanted to go."

The truth was, that intimate seaside concert was the only reason I had agreed to pack a bag and come on this miserable trip in the first place.

Zach laughed, a dry, dismissive bark. "Come on, Han. You don't know the first thing about this scene. You’d just be wasting a seat."

Beckett was the one who drove the final nail.

"The five of us will go," Beckett said, his tone brisk and managerial. "Hannah doesn't mind. Go find something fun in town, Han."

As the group began walking toward the boardwalk, Beckett lingered behind for a heartbeat. He reached out and tapped the bridge of my nose, an old habit from high school that now felt like an insult.

"Don't be mad," he whispered. "We'll go to plenty of shows later, just the two of us. The guys swore that if this works out, they're taking us to that steakhouse in Back Bay. Text me when you're back at the house, okay?"

I turned my face away from his hand. "Whatever, Beckett. Don't let me interrupt your performance."

Down the path, Vanessa’s voice floated back, singing out his name. Beckett didn't even notice the hollow bite in my tone. He turned on his heel and jogged toward her laughter without looking back.

I walked the two miles back to our rental alone, the wind whipping sand against my bare ankles.

Sitting on the edge of the unmade twin bed, I opened Instagram. Within an hour, five identical stories lit up my feed.

A video from the front row, the harbor lights blurring behind the stage. The caption on all of them read: Real music with the best people.

Under Zach’s post, a mutual friend from college had already commented:

Look at the crew back together.

Wait, where’s Hannah?

Foster had replied within minutes:

Her? You think Hannah knows good music? Don't insult the band.

On Vanessa’s story, she had tagged Beckett right over the vocalist’s head, accompanied by a small, discreet white heart.