The Proposal Was A Bet

Halfway up the snowline, it turned into a race. Brandon and Mallory had started the hike arguing over who would guide me to the summit first, and within an hour, their playful bickering hardened into something sharp and familiar. Their strides grew longer. Their boots kicked up sprays of powder that dusted my shins. They surged ahead, shoulder to shoulder, so absorbed in measuring their paces against each other that they never once looked over their shoulders to see if I was keeping up. I stopped near a jagged outcrop of rock, my chest hitching, every breath burning like crushed glass in my lungs. Through the veil of blowing snow, their figures dwindled into two dark, restless silhouettes against the white expanse. They had always been like this. Since they were kids, their entire existence had been an endless contest. In grade school, it was who pulled the highest grade on a spelling test. In college, it morphed into who held more real estate in my heart. When they dragged me to an escape room—knowing I was terrified of dark, enclosed spaces—they raced each other to see who could clear the solo puzzle tracks first. They abandoned me in the dim hallway, so caught up in the thrill of the timer that they left me sobbing in a corner while the costumed actors banged on the chain-link walls. When they took me to Montreal, bragging about who would teach me conversational French faster, they fell into rapid, competitive banter over dinner, dissecting idioms and debating accents with such manic intensity that they walked out of the bistro together, entirely forgetting I was trailing ten paces behind. I stood on an unfamiliar, slush-covered sidewalk for forty minutes before Brandon remembered he had a girlfriend. A sharp gust whipped across the ridge, driving pellets of ice into my cheeks. The sting pulled me back to the present. I had been climbing in agonizing silence for what felt like hours when the phone in my parka pocket vibrated. A notification. They had reached the summit. Brandon was asking where I was. I tapped the screen with numb fingers and opened Instagram. Mallory had already posted. It was a photograph of the summit trail, two sets of heavy boot prints pressed side-by-side into the virgin powder, winding toward the crest like twin ribbons. Her caption read: "Two tangled hearts will always tread the same road." A dry, bitter ache gathered in the back of my throat. My heart wasn't tangled with either of theirs. We weren't walking the same road, and we never had been. It was time to turn around. … The hike down was entirely solitary. I followed their prints in reverse, setting my boots into the indentations they had left behind on their rush to beat each other. By the time I reached the mountain lodge nestled at the base of the trail, the sun had long since slipped behind the peaks, leaving the valley submerged in deep blue twilight. The clerk behind the front desk looked up as I pushed through the heavy timber doors, snow clinging to my hair. "Miss Conway?" He glanced past my shoulder into the empty lobby. "Did the altitude sickness let up? Where are your boyfriend and your friend?" A hollow throb pulsed behind my ribs. "Up at the peak. Watching the planetary alignment." I didn't wait for his reply. I dragged myself down the wood-paneled hallway, slipped into my room, and collapsed onto the mattress without taking off my coat. My lungs rattled with every shallow gasp. Yesterday, the elevation had hit me like a physical blow. The nausea, the dizzying room-spins, the suffocating feeling that the air lacked substance. I had begged them to postpone the trek by a couple of days, just until my body acclimated. But they had spent weeks talking about this rare celestial event—the planets aligning along the ridgeline—and neither was willing to concede the experience. Not wanting to be the wet blanket who ruined the trip, I swallowed two aspirins, laced up my boots, and forced my body to move. My phone chimed on the nightstand. A FaceTime call. I answered on instinct. The small screen lit up with their faces, wedged tightly into the frame. "Lean back, Brandon, you're blocking my view of Iris," Mallory snapped, elbowing him hard in the ribs. "Iris is my girlfriend," Brandon shot back, refusing to budge an inch. "I get the center." Mallory shoved harder. Brandon leaned his weight into her. On the tiny screen, their bodies were glued together, flushed from the cold and the adrenaline of the climb. "Iris, where are you?" Brandon asked. Before I could form an answer, Mallory peered at the screen, her eyes widening. "Wait... are you back at the lodge?" I opened my mouth to tell them not to worry about me, that I had already decided to pack my bags and fly home in the morning. Brandon cut me off with a triumphant bark of laughter. "I won!" he cheered, shooting Mallory a smug grin. "I told you she was pissed!" A sudden, freezing stillness washed down my spine. The room felt entirely airless. "Won what?" Mallory's face fell into an exaggerated pout. "You weren't answering your texts, so Brandon bet fifty bucks you were sulking because we lost you on the ridge. I told him you were tougher than that. We were betting on who knew you better." My hand clamped down on the edges of the phone so tightly my knuckles went white. An acute, physical pain blossomed in the center of my chest, so heavy it made drawing a breath feel impossible. I wasn't their companion. I wasn't Brandon's partner or Mallory's dearest friend. I was a prop. A prize ribbon they traded back and forth depending on who guessed the right reaction. "Don't be mad, Iris," Brandon said, his tone softening into that easy, dismissive patronization he always used when he knew he was caught. "You know how we get when we lock into a challenge. We just got tunnel vision. It's not like we meant to leave you behind." The words needle-pointed straight into my heart. He "knew". He had known the moment they picked up their pace that they were abandoning me on an icy mountain, and he had simply chosen the game anyway. "Tell you what," Brandon added, oblivious to the silence on my end. "Tomorrow we'll spend the whole afternoon shopping for local crafts in the village. You always bring something back for your mom, right?" That thought stung me awake. My mother. Her mobility had been shattered years ago; she hadn't left our hometown in over a decade. Whenever I went anywhere, I brought her pieces of the world—jars of wild mountain honey, woven throws, hand-carved cedar coasters. In the fog of the altitude and the quiet devastation of the afternoon, I had completely forgotten. I thought of her sitting by the window in her worn armchair, her smile patient and soft. "Fine," I whispered. "Wait for us!" Mallory chirped, instantly revived by my surrender, and severed the connection. The screen went black, mirroring the reddened rims of my eyes. A second later, it flashed again with an incoming text from my mother. "Honey, are you staying warm? I hope the mountain air isn't making your head hurt. Brandon and Mallory are looking out for you, right?" My throat tightened painfully. I took a slow breath to steady my thumbs before typing: "Don't worry, Mom. Brandon and Mallory are taking great care of me." Her response came almost instantly. "They're such good kids. Coming from families like theirs, they've never once looked down on our modest home. They've always included you in everything." Then, a beat later: "By the way, I saw their pictures from the summit on Facebook. How come I didn't see yours? You didn't accidentally hide your old mom from your posts, did you?" She attached a little, sheepish yellow smiley face. My vision blurred. A single tear tracked hot down my cold cheek. She wasn't actually asking about social media privacy settings. She knew me better than that. She was gently, timidly probing the edges of the situation, terrified that I was being mistreated or left out, but too frightened of rocking the boat to ask outright. "Just had a touch of elevation sickness, Mom," I wrote, blinking through the wetness. "I stayed down at the base to sleep it off." "Good girl," she replied, clearly relieved. "Drink lots of water. Keep the heater on." "I will. Love you." I lowered the phone and stared out the cabin window at the cold, sparse scattering of stars above the timberline. Then, without hesitating, I opened the airline app and booked a single one-way ticket home for the day after tomorrow. Sometime past two in the morning, a violent hammering shattered the silence. The blows fell heavy and fast against the thin wood of the cabin door. I bolted upright, my heart slamming into my throat before my eyes could even adjust to the pitch-black room. I slid out of bed and edged toward the door, every instinct screaming. Through the frosted glass panel beside the frame, the porch was swallowed in ink. "Who's there?" I called out, my voice trembling. No answer. Only another frantic, thunderous rattle against the wood. Panic surged through me. I stumbled backward into the dark, my heel catching on the corner of the heavy wool rug. My body tilted, and I crashed sideways onto the hardwood floor, my ankle twisting beneath me with a sickening pop. A sharp, white-hot agony flared up my leg. Outside, the pounding ceased for three agonizing seconds. Then it started again, louder. "I'm calling the police!" I screamed from the floor, clutching my phone with shaking hands, dialing 911. A heavy sigh drifted through the keyhole. "Iris, it's us." Brandon's voice. "Iris, open the damn door," he urged, his tone laced with mild amusement. "No," I choked out, tears of pain leaking down my face. "I'm not opening anything until the sheriff gets here." "Babe, come on. Mallory and I just wanted to see who you'd reach out to first if you thought you were in real trouble." I dragged myself up using the edge of the nightstand, my left foot unable to bear a fraction of my weight. The throbbing in my ankle was blinding. "Iris, unlock it, please!" Mallory's voice chimed in, suddenly sounding nervous. "It was just a prank!" I stayed entirely still, leaning against the dresser, letting the cold air from the floor seep into my skin. Ten minutes later, flashing red and blue lights illuminated the frosted glass. Only when I heard the deputy's authoritative knock did I hobble forward and turn the deadbolt. On the porch, Brandon and Mallory were talking over each other, desperately trying to convince the deputy that it was all an inside joke between close friends. When the officer turned to me, demanding to know if I recognized them, they both looked at me with wide, pleading eyes—like guilty children waiting to be spared a grounding. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and gave the deputy a small, exhausted nod. The officer shook his head in disgust. "Don't ever pull a stunt like that again," he warned them coldly before walking back down the steps. Inside the room, Brandon and Mallory sat on the twin wooden chairs by the unlit fireplace, their heads lowered. "You were supposed to be at the peak," I said, my voice eerily calm, though the fury inside me felt like boiling acid. "Why were you trying to break down my door?" Mallory lifted her face, her eyes rimmed in red. She held out her unlocked phone. "We came down early because we wanted you to judge whose night-sky photos were better," she mumbled. "And then... when we got to the porch, Brandon said if someone tried to break in, you'd call him instantly. I said you'd call me because we share our locations. We wanted to see whose name you'd scream." A terrible, suffocating chill settled over me. "And you're shocked that I called the cops instead?" My heart was still hammering against my ribs from the terror of waking up to that violent banging. I looked at the two of them, sitting there looking sullen, and asked in a whisper, "Do either of you care, even for a single second, about how I feel?" Mallory flinched, then let out a soft, theatrical sob. Brandon’s brows furrowed, his defensive armor instantly snapping into place. "That's uncalled for, Iris. It’s not like we planned to hurt you. It was a stupid game to see who you trusted more. You're blowing this way out of proportion." I didn't answer. The last glowing ember of whatever I had felt for Brandon flickered and died. I looked toward the dark window. "Get out. I don't want to look at either of you right now." Brandon shifted uncomfortably, muttered a half-hearted protest, but seeing the rigid line of my jaw, he finally stood and guided Mallory out into the hall. The latch clicked shut. My knees gave out, and I sank into the armchair. When I rolled up my pajama pant, my left ankle was already swollen to the size of a tennis ball, mottled with ugly purple bruising. I pressed my thumbs into the flesh, gritting my teeth against the nausea. A soft tap sounded at the door. My phone lit up on the table. A message from Brandon. "How's the ankle? I ran down to the front desk and grabbed a can of cooling spray. Let me in so I can wrap it for you." I tossed the phone onto the bed, refusing to reply. Another vibration followed immediately. "Iris, please. I don't want you ending up crippled like your mother." My breath stopped entirely. My fingers shook with such violent rage that I could barely keep hold of the glass screen. He knew. He knew better than anyone alive that my mother's disability was the one raw, sacred nerve in my life that no one was permitted to touch. I typed out the reply with brutal, deliberate force: "Brandon, why is my mother in a wheelchair to begin with?" Years ago, when we were seven, my mother had taken me to a crowded street market downtown. She had spotted two children being dragged toward an unmarked van by two men—an attempted abduction in broad daylight. While other bystanders froze or looked away, my mother had screamed for the police, charged across the asphalt, and thrown her entire weight onto the man holding the kids. The traffickers beat her with an iron pipe. They broke both her femurs and crushed her hip. But even while bleeding out on the concrete, she had locked her arms around the man's ankles and refused to let go until the sirens wailed around the corner. Those two children were Brandon and Mallory. The orthopedic surgeons had pieced her legs back together with titanium rods and screws, but the nerve damage was irreversible. She would never walk without agony, and within five years, she was confined to a chair. Brandon didn't have the right to breathe the word "crippled". "Iris! Iris, open up, that's not what I meant!" Brandon yelled through the wood, panic bleeding into his tone. I didn't move. I dragged myself into the bed, pulled the comforter up to my chin, and let the memories wash over me. In middle school, during parent-teacher conferences, a pair of cruel boys had mocked my mother as she wheeled herself down the linoleum hallway. Back then, Brandon and Mallory had materialized instantly, flanking me like twin shields, screaming at the bullies until a teacher intervened. They had protected me once. I had loved them for it. "Iris, I'm just worried about you!" I closed my eyes, letting the tears slide quietly into the pillow. Outside, his voice gradually faded into the hollow whistle of the mountain wind. By morning, my ankle was twice its normal size, hot to the touch. Hunger and thirst forced me out of bed. I tied my laces as loosely as possible and wrenched the door open, intending to limp to the lodge dining room for coffee. Brandon and Mallory were standing in the hallway, looking disheveled, each holding a takeout bag. "Iris, eat mine!" Mallory stepped forward, thrusting a cup of warm steel-cut oats toward me—the kind I always ordered. "She's my girlfriend, she's eating what I got her," Brandon cut in smoothly, shoving a bakery bag with fresh breakfast sandwiches into my space. They looked at me with bright, expectant eyes. The game. Again. In the past, I would have forced a tight smile, taken a bite of both, and swallowed the exhaustion just to keep the peace between them. Today, I didn't even slow down. I limped right past them, using the wall for support. They scrambled after me down the hall. "Iris, since when did you get this petty?" Mallory muttered under her breath. A sharp, humorless laugh slipped out of me. "Leave her alone, Mal," Brandon said casually. "She's just being dramatic. She won't stay mad." "I'm not mad," I thought. "I'm done." "Well, honestly," Mallory huffed, "her mom is disabled. With a family like hers, we're the only ones who ever treated them like they were normal anyway." The world seemed to drop out from beneath my feet. I stopped dead in the middle of the carpeted corridor, slowly turning around to face her. I couldn't believe those words had crossed her lips. Brandon's parents and Mallory's parents were wealthy, absentee ghosts who managed their children through trust funds and monthly wire transfers. My mother had set a place for them at our Thanksgiving table every single year. She had baked them birthday cakes from scratch, mended their torn coats, listened to their teenage heartbreaks. They had told her, with tears in their eyes, that our tiny house was the only place they ever felt a mother's love. "Mallory," I said, my voice dangerously low, "what did you just say?" Mallory shrank back, her hand flying to her mouth as if realizing she had said the quiet part out loud. Brandon immediately stepped in front of her, playing the protector. "Iris, back off. She was just stating a fact. She didn't mean anything bad about your mom. Is there really any need to lose your mind over this?" A profound, icy stillness settled inside me. "Yes," I said. "There is." I turned toward the exit, but Brandon caught my upper arm. "Iris, stop it! You're terrifying Mallory. Apologize to her right now." I looked down at his hand on my sleeve, then up into his eyes. "Did either of you apologize to me for terrorizing me in the middle of the night?" Brandon froze, his grip slackening. "That was... that was an accident. This isn't." Mallory stepped forward, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. "Brandon, don't. It's fine. I shouldn't have said it." Brandon's expression darkened with irritation. "Don't apologize to her, Mal. She's making a mountain out of a molehill, as usual." I looked at the two of them—standing together, united against me, their bodies angled toward each other in perfect, unconscious symmetry. They looked like an old, married couple weathering a storm. I looked like an intruder standing on their porch. "We're done, Brandon," I said clearly. "It's over." Before he could process the sentence, I shook off his hand and hobbled out the glass doors into the biting morning air. I caught a cab to the county urgent care clinic. The doctor confirmed a grade-two sprain, wrapped it in a tight compression brace, and handed me a pair of crutches. On the way back, I had the driver stop at the village trading post. I bought two jars of mountain clover honey, a pair of hand-knitted alpaca wool slippers, and a small pine-scented sachet. Holding the bag in my lap, I felt the first genuine smile in days touch my lips. My mother was going to love these. When the cab dropped me off at the lodge, Mallory came bursting through the front entrance, her face pale with panic. "Iris! Oh God, Iris, your mom fell down the stairs! She's in the ER!" The breath vanished from my lungs. The ground tilted. Before I could scream, Brandon walked out through the double doors, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face smooth and composed. "Your mom didn't fall down the stairs, Iris. She's completely fine." I stood on my crutches, paralyzed between them, the world spinning in nauseating circles. Then, almost in unison, they spoke. "Iris, who do you believe?" A wave of pure revulsion washed over me. "I don't believe either of you," I spat, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped my crutches. I whipped out my phone and dialed my mother's number. "Ring. Ring. Ring." Voicemail. My stomach plummeted into an icy abyss. "Brandon... did she fall? Tell me the truth!" Brandon leaned against the porch railing, his gaze cool, appraising. "Tell me who you trust first." The terror for my mother eclipsed the agonizing pain in my ankle. I lunged forward on my good foot, grabbing the collar of his designer down jacket with both hands, shaking him. "What happened to my mother?!" Mallory stepped up beside us, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity. "We just wanted to see who holds the highest place of trust in your life, Iris." I stared at them, my vision blurring, horrified to my core. They were using my mother's life—her frail, damaged body—as the chip in their sick little parlor game. I thought of her unanswered phone. The dread was eating me alive. "I believe Brandon," I choked out, swallowing the vomit in my throat. Because I couldn't bear the thought of Mallory being right. I needed my mother to be safe. Mallory let out a dramatic, disappointed groan. "Ugh! I lost again! I should have picked the 'she's fine' card." Brandon grinned, reaching out to ruffle Mallory's hair with genuine affection. "You don't understand her psychology like I do, Mal. Iris is always an optimist when it comes to her family." Looking at them—flirting over the ashes of my sanity—something fundamental snapped inside me. "What happened to my mother?!" I screamed, the sound tearing raw from my throat. Brandon turned back to me, the smirk lingering at the corners of his mouth. "She fell on the front porch. The neighbor called an ambulance." The nails of my right hand bit into my palm until I felt skin break. "The ER doctor said it’s minor contusions," Brandon continued smoothly. "No fractures. She’s being discharged this afternoon." My knees nearly gave out in relief. "Then why isn't she answering her phone?" "She left her purse on the kitchen counter when the paramedics wheeled her out," Mallory supplied eagerly. "How do you even know about this?" I demanded. "A resident in the trauma ward went to high school with Brandon," Mallory said, smiling as if she were delivering wonderful news. "He recognized your mom from that group photo Brandon posted last Thanksgiving. He shot Brandon a DM to ask if she was okay." I lowered my arms. I didn't say another word. I opened the airline app, canceled the flight for tomorrow, and booked a seat on the four-fifteen flight departing Denver this afternoon. Then I looked up at them. Brandon was still glowing with the cheap satisfaction of winning; Mallory was still grumbling about her bad luck. "Thank you," I said quietly. I turned around and crutched my way down the hall to my room. We had planned this mountain getaway to last two full weeks. My duffel bag had been meticulously packed with thermal gear, hiking boots, and matching sweaters. I unzipped it, staring down into the fabric. Methodically, without shedding a single tear, I pulled out everything that belonged to them or had been touched by them: the custom fleece Brandon had bought me for our anniversary, the silver charm bracelet Mallory had given me for my birthday, the Polaroid photos taped inside my journal. I dropped them into the wastebasket by the desk. The duffel bag was more than half-empty. At two o'clock, I hobbled to the front desk with my bag slung over my shoulder. The clerk glanced at my luggage. "Checking out early, Miss Conway? Your boyfriend and your friend stepped out a little while ago. Are they checking out too?" I handed him my room key. "No," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "Just me." I stepped into the waiting taxi and watched the snowy peaks disappear in the rearview mirror. Before the plane took off from Denver, I tried calling my mother three more times. Still voicemail. I sat back against the headrest, closed my eyes, and counted down the minutes until landing. ... Later that evening, Brandon and Mallory returned to the lodge, laughing as they walked through the front doors, holding hands. "Did you double-check the dinner reservation?" Mallory asked, bumping her hip against his. "She has no idea we rented out the entire terrace." "Everything’s set," Brandon replied, tapping his breast pocket where the velvet box rested. "After this morning, she’s probably feeling pretty raw. A ring will wipe the slate clean." They took the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door to my room. The space was dead quiet. The bed was stripped. The closet doors hung open, revealing empty wooden hangers. They sprinted down to the lobby, breathless, slamming their palms onto the front desk. "Where is she?" Brandon demanded. "Where did Iris go?" The clerk looked at them coolly. "Miss Conway checked out hours ago."