He Texted the Wrong Chat, So I Moved In With Her Husband novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Toast
Mid-toast at her own engagement party, a message from Dillon meant for a secret chat lands on Casey's phone; she reads it to sixty guests, ends the engagement, and learns at the coat rack that she signed something at the bank.
I was holding the microphone at my own engagement party when my fiancé's message landed on my phone.
Sixty people sat at round tables in a banquet hall, forks up, waiting for my toast.
My notes were on my phone. The message slid over them.
It said: She said yes in front of everyone.
Under that: Tell her to quit making faces at me.
Under that: The trip Thursday is still on. Her fan weekend covers us.
It had come into our own thread, the one with the picture of us at the amusement park.
He had meant to send it somewhere else.
My fiancé and my best friend had followed the same travel vlogger for two years.
The vlogger filmed himself eating noodles in cities I couldn't spell.
I thought it was sweet that they had something to share.
The three of us had shared everything since sophomore year.
My fiancé sat at the head table two feet from me, thumb still over his screen, grinning across the room.
His name was Dillon.
My best friend sat at the maid of honor table in her green dress. Her name was Lydia.
She lifted her phone, read it, and set it face down.
She did it so smoothly that I almost missed it.
"Case?" Dillon said. "You okay?"
"One second," I said into the microphone. "I have a message I need to read."
"Case, don't," Dillon said.
I read it out loud, every word, including the trip and the weekend.
The hall went quiet.
Dillon's smile stayed on his face for about two more seconds.
Then Lydia was on her feet, hand on her chest, walking toward me with her whole warm face.
"Oh my God, Case, it's the Rafe chat," she said. "It's a joke. We send each other dumb stuff about his videos all day."
"What chat?" I said.
"The fan chat. You said his videos put you to sleep, remember? You said, keep me out of it."
I had said that.
I had said it on a couch two years ago, laughing.
"Dillon," Lydia said, "show her the chat."
"Yeah," Dillon said. "Yeah. Case, give me your phone, I'll show you."
He reached across the table.
I pulled the phone to my chest.
"Why does a fan joke say she said yes?" I said.
"Because I was telling Lyd about the proposal," Dillon said.
"She was in the room when you proposed. She held the camera."
Somebody at table four coughed.
"And why does her fan weekend cover you?" I said. "Her weekend. Not yours."
"I was driving her to the airport," Dillon said.
"Where is she flying?"
"Somewhere for the vlogger. Denver, I think."
"And you're driving her all the way to Denver?"
"Case, honey, sit down," Lydia said softly. She laid her hand on my arm.
On her right hand was the thin gold band she wore every day. She called it her grandmother's ring.
I looked at the band, and then I looked at her face.
Her eyes were kind. They were the eyes that had sat on my bathroom floor at nineteen, holding my hair back.
"I'm fine," I said. "I'm better than fine."
I took the hand off my arm.
Then I turned the ring on my finger until the diamond came around, worked it off over the knuckle, and set it on the cake plate beside the knife.
Dillon's mother half rose at the front table.
"Thank you all for coming," I said into the microphone. "The engagement is off. The food is paid for, so please eat."
I paid for the food. Dillon had told me his card was "tied up."
I put the microphone down on the table, and the thump carried through the speakers.
"Casey," Dillon said, standing now. His dimple was gone. "You're humiliating me in front of my family."
"You texted the wrong chat," I said. "I'm only reading it back."
I picked up my coat from the rack by the door.
My hands were shaking, so I did it in one pull.
I got three steps toward the parking lot before a hand closed on my elbow.
It was Patrice, Dillon's mother, in her pastel church suit, with her pearls and her tight little smile.
She walked me into the coat alcove, out of sight of the room.
"You will not do this to him," she said quietly. "He's put in too much."
"Put in what?" I said.
"You signed the papers Thursday. At the bank. In front of a notary."
I stared at her.
On Thursday, Dillon had slid a stack of forms across the bank counter and told me they were for a joint checking account, for the wedding.
I had signed where the little yellow flags were. There were a lot of flags.
"Those were bank forms," I said.
"They were a deed, Casey," Patrice said. "Half of that house is my son's now."
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