My girlfriend was a medical genius.
I barely scraped into a third-rate college.
Our friends said I wasn't good enough for her. She cut them off on the spot:
"Matthew Gilbert is my salvation. You don't get to judge."
But no matter how hard I tried, graduation seemed impossible.
So I asked Louisa Pruitt to add my name to one of her papers.
Without hesitation, she put my name before hers.
But when I hugged her, thrilled, I heard her whisper in my ear:
"Academic arm candy."
After that, she made less and less time for me.
And spent more and more time with the campus golden boy—smarter than me, better looking than me.
When I tried to plan something for her birthday, all I got was a jab:
"I haven't had any papers to carry you on lately. I wouldn't dare let you celebrate with me."
I didn't argue. Didn't make a scene.
I canceled the residency she'd arranged for me at a top hospital.
Changed my placement to Southridge State—a thousand miles away from her.
...
When her roommate told me Louisa hadn't come back to the dorm by midnight, I tracked her down to a private room at a karaoke bar.
The moment I opened the door, the music cut off.
The room was packed with people from Louisa and Otis Armstrong's circle.
I barely recognized any of them.
But they all seemed to recognize me.
One guy raised an eyebrow:
"Well, well. Louisa, your man's here to pick you up."
"Tsk! Trudging through the snow in the middle of the night, hangover soup in hand—so thoughtful. What's the play, angling for a few more papers?"
"If you ask me, marriage should be between equals. Our boy Otis here is better looking and smarter. Isn't he a better match?"
Otis laughed and punched the guy's arm:
"Hey, no need to state the obvious!"
Louisa's eyes were flushed pink from the alcohol.
She smiled at their comments. Said nothing to shut them down.
I gripped the thermos of soup tighter:
"Louisa. Are you coming or not?"
She turned to Otis with a smile:
"Should I go?"
Otis gave her a playful shove:
"Why are you asking me? He's your boyfriend. Do what he says!"
"Fine."
She stood up. "Whatever you say."
Otis's face went red.
I clenched my jaw.
I'd driven here in Louisa's car.
Louisa's talent for medicine was extraordinary.
She'd been recruited by Crownbridge School of Medicine before she even took her college entrance exams.
Before graduation, she already had offers from multiple institutions, inviting her to join as faculty the moment she finished.
Over the years, research partners had showered her with resources and money.
The girl who once shared a backpack with me now wanted for nothing.
The Audi A6 parked outside was the least impressive thing she owned.
I was about to get in the driver's seat when she grabbed my arm:
"Call a driver."
"Why?"
"You're not smart enough to handle this car."
She pulled out her phone, eyes hazy, and ordered a designated driver. Then she smiled at me:
"I'd like to live a little longer."
I frowned:
"I drove it here myself!"
"Did you? And yet you're so clever you need your girlfriend to carry you on papers?"
I ground my teeth:
"If you don't want to help, I'll give back the credit!"
"Give it back how?"
She leaned closer. Those familiar eyes were soft, but now edged with something cold:
"You're not Otis. What—you think you can publish in a top journal too?"
I had no response.
The gap between me and Otis Armstrong wasn't just academic.
Otis's father was a hospital president.
My parents woke before dawn to sell vegetables at the wet market.
They'd scraped together Louisa's first tuition payment from those earnings.
But that was a long time ago.
After the driver dropped us off, I called my parents, still seething.
