Fresh off the high of my year-end bonus, I splurged on a pair of limited-edition Air Jordans for my boyfriend, Aiden Dickerson, who was grinding through his graduate degree.
I never expected him to list them on Mercari the very next day—twenty percent of market price, seal still intact.
I bought them back with a burner account. Once delivery confirmed, I called him.
"Darling, did you like my little surprise? Satisfied?"
Aiden sounded lost. "What surprise?"
I let my voice wobble with fake hurt.
"I hid a classic Patek Philippe inside the shoebox. Worth over seventy thousand. You didn't see it?"
——
The discovery had come over the weekend while I was doom-scrolling Mercari. A local listing caught my eye.
Limited-edition AJ, size 10.5, brand new, unopened. Authentic urgent sale! Only $200!
My thumb froze. The world stopped for two full seconds.
I'd bought these exact shoes two days ago. Same model, same rare size. I'd camped online for three straight nights, battling sleep deprivation and server crashes, before finally snagging them for $900.
Has to be a fake, I told myself. Just a knockoff.
I tapped the post and swiped through the photos.
Then I saw the wrapping paper.
Light gray base, silver-stamped dark pattern. Identical to what I'd chosen.
The official packaging had looked too generic, so I'd driven to two different stationery boutiques, comparing textures for an hour before settling on this one. I picked the understated gray because I worried Aiden would find anything bolder too flashy.
Coincidence, I thought, forcing my breathing steady. Just coincidence.
But cold spread from my fingertips up my arms.
I clicked the seller's profile. Local IP.
Silence stretched through my apartment. Finally, I opened a private chat.
"Hello, are the shoes still available? Authentic? Why so cheap?"
The reply came instantly.
"Rest assured, hun, absolutely authentic. Shipped directly from the flagship store. Haven't even opened the packaging."
A second later, a logistics screenshot.
Recipient: Aiden Dickerson.
Sender: Tessa Fox.
The phone slipped in my sweaty palm. I barely caught it.
The seller really was my boyfriend. And his proof of authenticity was the shipping confirmation I'd texted him forty-eight hours ago, giddy with excitement.
My fingers went stiff. I took a ragged breath, clicked into his seller page, and scrolled.
A graveyard of my affection.
Six months of dating. Almost everything I'd given him—listed.
The noise-canceling headphones for our one-month anniversary. Retail $300. Sold.
The gaming console for our 100-day milestone. Retail $500. Sold.
Weeks ago, he'd claimed he needed better tech for a research project, so I upgraded his tablet to the newest pro model. Retail $1,000. Sold.
Then I saw the scarf.
I'd knitted it by hand last winter. The coarse yarn rubbed blisters on my fingers that lasted weeks. When I gave it to him, he'd pulled me into a hug, swearing he'd wear it for a lifetime.
Listed for ten dollars. Free shipping.
Gift from a friend. Don't like it. Just taking up space.
Bile rose in my throat.
Since we started dating, Aiden's requests had been relentless. Always a reason—one-month mark, 100-day milestone, his birthday, his thesis proposal passing. Every occasion required tribute. Every time, I paid.
I'd been working two years while he was still in grad school. I assumed he had no income, so I shielded him from expenses. Covered dates, bought groceries, handled gifts.
When his return gifts were snack packs worth a few bucks or cheap trinkets from coupon apps, I never complained. I thought I was being considerate. Supportive.
His sales history told the truth. To Aiden, I wasn't a girlfriend.
I was an ATM.
A notification pinged. Another message.
"Hello? Still interested? Buy now and I'll give you an even better price. Can ship today."
I stared at his desperate plea for cash.
My first instinct: expose him. Scream at him. Break up. Tell him to get lost.
No. Cold resolve settled over me. That would be letting him off too easy.
