Pardon My French

Story Sent in by John:

In college I dated Stephanie, who went to school about 150 miles away. It was clear that we were exclusive and over the course of our six-month relationship, we tried to see each other at least every two weeks. She invited me to a party at her sublet one Saturday night.

I arrived early, helped her and her housemates set up, the guests arrived, the booze flowed, and the music blasted.

As I mingled around, I found myself in conversation with Josie, a French major (like me) and we talked French for a while. Platonic. Friendly. That was all.

After our chat, I looked for Stephanie. I found her in a corner with her pants half off, making out with some tall blond guy. It wasn't quite how I imagined our relationship ending, but I took the high road, backed away without her noticing, and left the party.

When I was about 10 miles away, she texted me, "Where are you?"

I wrote back, "Out of your life."

She called and I (perhaps stupidly) picked up. She asked, "What's wrong? Where are you?"

"I didn't want to interrupt your fun with that blond guy, so I checked out."

A long pause on her end of the call. I was about to hang up when she said, "Drake is just a friend. It happens. I don't see what the problem is."

I replied, "That's the problem," and hung up.

She then texted me, "You're an asshoIe," and then a few minutes later, "AsshoIe," followed shortly thereafter by, "SUCH an asshoIe."

If walking out on her made me so, then I accept that. Still hurt, though.