Chapter 2: I Choose the War Zone

Her name was Jordan Wells. I remembered, when we finalized the guest list, Mason hesitated about her name—typing and deleting it over and over. I’d asked why, and he said she was traveling the world and probably wouldn’t come back on purpose.

That night, I replayed the memory of Mason’s hand hovering over the keyboard, his jaw tight with indecision. The way he’d shrugged off my question, voice a little too casual. Now it all made sense. A sharp twinge ran through me—jealousy, maybe, or just the sting of always being second best.

So… she was his first love.

The realization settled in my chest like a cinderblock. I traced her name on the screen, wondering what it was about her that made him hesitate, that made him write those words instead of a checklist.

Mason’s Facebook was still logged in on the computer. I found Jordan. Their chat history was wiped clean. But her latest post read:

Ugh! The guy I love is getting married. I’m gonna slash the tires on his wedding car and crash the party!

I scrolled through her photos—sunsets over foreign cities, laughter in crowded bars, her hair wild in the wind. She looked fearless, unapologetic. The kind of woman who never asked permission. The kind Mason would never bring home to his mother.

Mason replied: "Even if you crash it, it won’t change anything. I’m not marrying you."

Jordan: "Ugh, fine! You really found true love this time, huh?"

Mason: "...What are you saying?"

Jordan: "Whatever! With your family, marrying you means marrying your whole clan. I don’t want that! My journey is the stars and the sea!"

Mason: "Yeah, I know. So I married the person they wanted me to marry. I also can’t bear to see you stuck like that."

Couldn’t bear it? I’d never heard that from Mason before.

Those words hit me harder than I expected. He’d never said anything like that to me—not once. I was the safe choice, the one who wouldn’t rock the boat. Did he ever actually see me, or just the part I played in his parents’ perfect little picture?

I met Mason on a blind date. He was young, successful—the youngest attending physician at the top hospital in Toledo, and easy on the eyes. But his parents? Old-school as it gets. They wanted a daughter-in-law who was quiet, polite, could cook, and would take care of everyone.

His mom’s house was straight out of a Midwest family magazine—plastic covers on the couch, floral wallpaper, and shelves of porcelain angels. The first time I visited, she looked me up and down like I was the prize turkey at the county fair. I tried to smile, tried to be what they wanted. That first night, when she brought out a basin and asked me to wash her feet, I hesitated just a second before kneeling down. I told myself it was tradition, respect, but deep down, I knew I was just trying to fit in.

I remember the sting of humiliation, the way Mason looked away, pretending not to notice. But I told myself it was worth it—love meant sacrifice, didn’t it? That’s what I’d always believed. Still, the shame lingered, burning hot and sharp beneath my skin.

We dated for two years. His parents were thrilled with me. He gradually got used to a house that was always spotless, hot soup and fresh food waiting, his shirts ironed and folded... I became the perfect hostess, the perfect girlfriend, the woman every Midwest mom dreams of for her son. I learned to make his favorite chili from scratch, folded his laundry just so, made sure the house always smelled like fresh-baked bread. Sometimes, in the middle of scrubbing the sink, I’d ask myself if this was really what I wanted, or if I was just playing the part.

But he always kept me at arm’s length. Until his birthday this year, when I tried to bake him a cake myself. The oven blew up while preheating. When he rushed to the ER and saw my arm full of glass shards, it was the first time he really lost it—he grabbed my face, panicked, his voice shaking.

“You don’t have to do all this for me… It’s okay not to…”

His hands trembled as he brushed the hair from my eyes, voice raw with fear. For a split second, I thought I saw something real—something that went deeper than duty. But even then, he never said he couldn’t bear it.

Later, he proposed. I thought maybe he really did care, maybe he was ready to walk this road with me. I didn’t expect he was just checking off his parents’ boxes. Jordan was the one he cherished so much he’d rather let her go than see her bound by them.

I replayed the proposal in my mind—the restaurant with its flickering candles, the ring box trembling in his hand. I wanted to believe it was love. But now, with everything laid bare, I saw it for what it was: another item on his checklist. Jordan was the one he couldn’t let go, even if he never said it out loud.

The moment I saw their conversation, I knew it was over. He was acting for his parents; I was acting for myself. But no matter how good the act, it was still just a performance.

The truth stung, but it was freeing too. I’d spent so long trying to be the perfect cast member in someone else’s play, I’d forgotten what it felt like to be myself. For the first time in forever, I was done pretending.

After returning from the station, I dug out a few old camera bags from deep in my bookshelf. They were my long-buried memories. The feel of the camera was unfamiliar, the batteries long dead. While waiting for the charger, I slid the memory card into my laptop and opened those dusty old photos.