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I took a long sip of my dirty martini and leaned into the bar, staring resentfully down towards the end of it. My boyfriend of three years, Ryan, was still engaged in conversation, feeding his ego with clever banter. I noticed the familiar animated expressions, grand gestures, and overly enthused laughter that captivated the small crowd of people he was talking to. I sighed heavily, and settled back onto my bar stool and played with the spear of olives in my drink. It was New Year's Eve, but all it really amounted to was just another night of pretending I was happy. It was something that I had become good at, thanks to several years of practice at trying to be his girlfriend.

Ryan and I had started out, as every other couple seemed to. There had been that magnetic attraction that night at the club when we had first met. It had been another New Years Eve, three years prior. I had been trying to get a drink, along with the surging crowd that had been pushing towards the bar, trying to get any bartender's attention. Being a rather small and diminutive blonde in a sea of tall men, he must have seen my struggle, and moved in to easily impress me with the way he commanded attention. When he handed me a glass of champagne in time for the clock to strike midnight, I couldn't help but be intrigued.

Over the years I had blossomed under the flattery of what it meant to be Ryan's girlfriend. He seemed to know everyone in the city, and everyone wanted him at their parties. He was charming, and ...

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