She Left When I Was Broke, Regretted When I Was King

Ethan's POV

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps. I dragged the mop across the break room floor, watching dirty water swirl into patterns that disappeared as quickly as they formed. My hands ached. The blisters from yesterday's unloading shift had split open again, leaving raw pink patches on my palms that stung with every movement.

"Ethan, you good?" Marcus called from the doorway. "Your shift ended ten minutes ago."

I looked up, managing a smile despite the exhaustion pulling at my bones. "Yeah, I'm done. Just finishing up."

"Man, you look dead on your feet." Marcus shook his head. "How many doubles are you working this week?"

"Last one," I said, leaning the mop against the wall. "Taking some time off after this."

"About damn time." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Valentine's Day plans?"

My smile widened, becoming real. "Something like that."

The backpack in my locker felt heavier than it should. I'd checked it three times already today, terrified someone might steal it, though who'd break into a Walmart employee locker? Still, my heart hammered as I spun the combination lock. The navy blue gift box sat exactly where I'd left it, wrapped in a silver ribbon I'd practiced tying seventeen times last night.

Inside was a Dior handbag. Genuine leather. Gold hardware. The kind of thing I'd never touched before walking into that boutique downtown three weeks ago.

"This is the one," Lena had said six months back, stopping in front of a store window we'd passed on our way to the cheap theater. She'd pressed her hand against the glass, laughing at herself. "God, imagine being the kind of person who just buys something like that. Two thousand dollars for a purse."

"Maybe someday," I'd said.

She'd kissed my cheek. "You're sweet, but we both know that's not our world, babe. Come on, the movie starts at ten."

I've thought about that moment every day since. During every double shift, every tutoring session where entitled college kids paid me twenty bucks an hour to do their homework. I'd skipped breakfast most days. Lunch too. My jeans hung loose on my hips now, held up by a belt I'd owned since high school. The same three shirts cycled through my week, washed in Lena's sink because the laundromat cost too much.

But tonight, I had that purse.

Tonight, everything will be different.

The bus ride to Lena's apartment took forty minutes. I counted every one, watching my reflection in the dark window. When did I start looking so tired? The shadows under my eyes could've been bruises. My hair needed cutting. I touched my jaw, feeling stubble I hadn't had time to shave.

Would Lena care? She'd seen me worse. She'd held me after twelve-hour shifts, let me sleep on her couch when my roommate's boyfriend stayed over and I couldn't stand the noise. She'd never complained when I couldn't afford fancy dates, when dinner meant splitting a pizza, when I'd had to borrow forty bucks from her last month for my phone bill.

I'd paid her back. I always paid her back.

The apartment building looked better than mine. It always did. Brick instead of concrete. An actual lobby with a doorman who nodded at me. Leonard. Nice guy. He'd stopped asking for ID three months ago.

"Evening, Ethan. Ms. Martinez expecting you?"

"It's a surprise," I said, patting my backpack. "Valentine's Day."

Leonard grinned. "Lucky lady. Go on up."

The elevator groaned its way to the fifth floor. My reflection in the polished doors looked nervous. Excited. Terrified. All of it mixed together until I couldn't tell which feeling dominated.

I'd helped pay Lena's rent twice when she'd been short. Once in November, once in January. "Just until my commission check comes through," she'd promised. I hadn't asked when that would be. Money felt dirty to talk about, especially when I had so little of it.

But tonight wasn't about money. Tonight was about love.

My key, the spare she'd given me three months ago, slid into the lock with a soft click. "So you can let yourself in anytime," she'd said, pressing it into my palm. "Mi casa es su casa, right?"

I'd kept it on my keychain ever since, right next to my apartment key and the tiny flashlight I used when the hallway lights died.

The door swung open silently. Lena always oiled the hinges. Said squeaky doors drove her crazy.

Soft music played from somewhere inside. Something jazzy. Not Lena's usual style. She liked pop, the kind with heavy bass that made her dance in the kitchen while cooking.

"Lena?" I called, stepping inside. "I know I'm early, but I couldn't wait to…”

The words died.

My brain processed the scene in fragments, pieces of a puzzle I didn't want to complete.

The couch. Lena's couch, the one I'd helped her move in, the one we'd watched movies on, where I'd fallen asleep with my head in her lap.

Lena was there.

So was someone else.

Tangled together. Her shirt, the red one I'd always loved, hung off one shoulder. His hand, large and familiar, rested on her bare thigh. Their mouths pulled apart slowly, like they had all the time in the world.

His face turned toward me.

Dark hair. Strong jaw. The same crooked smile I'd seen across breakfast tables and Christmas dinners for fifteen years.

Marcus. No. Not Marcus from work.

Michael.

My brother. Adoptive, technically, but brother in every way that mattered. The person I'd grown up with. Fought with. Shared a room until I was sixteen. The guy who'd given me advice about asking Lena out in the first place.

"Go for it," he'd said over beers eight months ago. "She's gorgeous, and she clearly likes you. Don't overthink it, little bro."

Little bro.

The gift box slipped from my fingers. It hit the hardwood floor with a crack that seemed impossibly loud. The ribbon came loose. The box lid popped open.

Navy blue tissue paper spilled out. The purse tumbled free, landing on its side. Gold hardware gleamed under the apartment lights.

Two thousand dollars, lying on the floor.

Six months of planning. Three months of saving. Every sacrifice, every skipped meal, every blister and aching muscle.

All of it, right there on the ground.

Lena's eyes went wide. She scrambled off the couch, tugging her shirt down, pushing Michael's hand away.

"Ethan." Her voice cracked. "What are you doing here?"

I couldn't speak. My throat had closed. My chest felt crushed, like someone had parked a truck on my ribs.

She took a step toward me, hand outstretched. "Aren't you supposed to be working?”