Right

by Jana Aston

  He rubs his forehead with two fingers, thumb against his temple like he’s fighting a headache. “I turned thirty-five last week. I reevaluated.”

  “You reevaluated?” I seethe. “You just reevaluated me out of your life? Just like that? You cannot be serious with the bullshit coming out of your mouth right now, Sawyer Camden.”

  “You have no direction, Everly,” he says sharply. “You’re graduating in a few months and you have no idea what you’re doing with your life.”

  He knows that bothers me. He knows it.

  “You selected a college solely as a means to seduce my brother. I mean, Jesus, how did you think this was going to end between us?”

  “Don’t do this, Sawyer.” I say it softly, tears threatening behind my eyelids. I don’t beg, and I don’t cry, as a general rule. But I’m not sure I can keep that record intact right now.

  “It’s done.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “I am.” Sawyer gives a slight nod. “Your brother tried to warn you, didn’t he?”

  Wow.

  It’s true. Eric did try.

  I didn’t listen.

  I flick my eyes to the ceiling, trying to make the tears recede without an obvious swipe to my face.

  “I get bored and I move on.” Sawyer sighs. “So thanks. Thank you.” That comes out a little softer than the words preceding it but he might as well have punched me with the words.

  Thank you? For what? Falling in love with him? The mind-blowing sex? Making him laugh? Or leaving his office quietly now that he’s dismissed me?

  “Fuck you.”

  Forty-Four

  I don’t say anything else after that. I turn around and leave his office, grateful Sandra’s desk is still empty because the tears are falling down my face.

  I walk quickly, my head down so nobody I might pass in the hallway sees my face. My feet make barely a sound on the office carpeting, a soft thump likely only audible to me. I reach the elevator bank and punch the down button, grateful I’m waiting alone, the area blessedly quiet.

  An elevator arrives and I get in, hit the lobby button and slump into the corner, allowing the elevator itself to hold me up. A choked sob escapes before I sniffle it in, wiping my face off with the sleeves of my shirt. The elevator slows and I groan as it comes to a stop to allow other passengers to get on. And again two floors later. And the one after that. I cannot catch a break today.

  I keep my eyes on the floor but I know everyone can hear me making that sniffle-snort noise you make when you’re sucking in tears. I wonder what they think of me, a random girl huddled in the corner of the elevator trying not to cry. Then I remember I might not be so random after all. I may have met some of these people at the party on New Year’s Eve. I’m not looking up to check. I’m humiliated enough for one day.

  The elevator reaches the lobby and I put one foot in front of the other, the door out of this place my only goal at present. My shoes squeak on this floor.

  Someone holds the door for me when I get there, and I say, “Thank you,” as I walk through.

  Thank you. I laugh. Thank you is an appropriate response when someone holds the door. It’s not an appropriate goodbye during a breakup. What an idiot.

  I use the crosswalk to cross the four lanes of traffic that circle Logan Square. It’s a circle really. A big circular pie of green space in downtown Philadelphia separated by slices of sidewalk leading to a fountain in the middle. It’s empty now, drained for winter. Patches of half-melted ice and small islands of snow dot the fountain’s surface.

  I sit on the edge then swing my legs over, stepping into the fountain, because why not? How many chances do you get to walk around a dry fountain? I stuff my hands in my pockets and walk to the center, passing a stone frog the size of a small child, its mouth gaping, ready to erupt a stream of water as soon as the weather permits. I reach the fountain a few steps later, walking around it, getting an up-close view of the three statues. There’s a girl with a swan on her head. A woman with a swan on her head. And a reclining man reaching for a bow or sword behind his back. There’s a large fish on his head. I decide they make as much sense as Sawyer does and take a seat next to sword guy.

  Pulling my knees up to my chest, I dig in my bag for my wallet then dump all the change I can find into my hand.

  I hope you get diarrhea, Sawyer, is my first wish as I hurl a dime across the empty fountain. I hope you’re plagued with a shoddy internet connection. That wish gets a quarter. I hope your next girlfriend snores. I hope you get a flat tire on the turnpike. Wait, that one is kind of dangerous. Well, fuck him. I lob a penny into the air, watching it hit the cement and roll. I hope your flight is delayed. Every flight. I hope your cell battery is low and the power goes out. I hope…

  God, I suck at this.

  I hope one day you realize what a huge mistake you just made and you never get over me.

  I propel the remaining change in my hand across the fountain with the force of a professional pitcher. The coins fly through the air before raining down on the cement. All I hear is the white noise in my ears.

  My mind spins but I feel nothing. Empty. I feel empty. I wrap my arms around my bent knees and stare at Sawyer’s building until my butt is numb and my nose is running. Then I get up and walk to the opposite side of the fountain from where I got in, walking towards 20th Street where I can grab a cab back to school.

  Goodbye, Sawyer.

  “So.” Chloe’s back from the showers down the hall and running a comb through her hair.

  “So,” I repeat back, not looking at her. I’m busy.

  “So are you going to, I don’t know, maybe take a shower today?” she prods.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you smell, Everly. That’s why.”

  I pull a bottle of room spray out from my desk drawer without looking at her and spray it over my head, the mist landing in my hair and on my hands. I don’t care. I keep my eyes on my laptop, my finger scrolling until I find something I like. My full attention is needed on this project.

  “Problem solved,” I tell her.

  “Um, no. No, it’s really not.” Chloe tidies up her side of the room and stuffs her laptop in her bag, getting ready to head out for the day.

  “I’ll shower tomorrow. I’m busy.”

  “You said that yesterday. What are you working on?”

  “Pinterest.”

  “That’s helping how?”

  “It’s very therapeutic.”

  She walks behind my chair and peers at my laptop. “Sawyer Camden is a dick,” she reads out loud, viewing the board of pictures I’ve created about crappy ex-boyfriends. She nudges my hand out of the way and scrolls through for a minute. “Yeah, no.” She snaps the laptop lid closed. “This isn’t helping.”

  “Just go to class, Chloe.” I open the laptop again and hit a key to bring it to life.

  “It’s Saturday.”

  Oh.

  “And I’m not bringing you another can of Pringles.”

  Oh, no, she didn’t.

  “So you’re gonna have to get up and leave this room.”

  Fine. I don’t need to eat.

  “One more thing,” she says, pulling open the door with one hand and waving a little canister at me with the other. “The fish haven’t eaten yet today. And I’m gonna be gone all day. So they’re going to be hungry if you don’t get off your ass and leave this room. Bye!” The door swings shut behind her, and I realize the canister of fish food was in her hand.

  Whatever. They’re goldfish. I don’t care.

  Except. Except that they’re looking at me. I tap my fingertip on the glass and Steve waves his little fin excitedly. He really does. The little guy is totally into me. And then Stella swims to the top looking for food.

  Fucking Chloe. I grab my stuff and head to the showers.

  Thirty minutes later I’m outside, headed towards the Wawa on Spruce. It’s nice out, if you’re into that sort of thing. Nice weather, su
nshine, love. I’m not, so it doesn’t matter. I enter the convenience store, the automatic door swooshing to grant me access, and head for the chip aisle. I grab half a dozen cans of Pringles then head to the coffee counter and place an order for a mocha mint latte. It’s so much better than the grasshopper latte we sell at Grind Me. Plus, it doesn’t have a stupid bug name. I pop open one of the cans of Pringles while I wait and shove a stack of four into my mouth. I catch a guy judging me for my life choices but I stare back while shoving another stack of chips into my mouth and he looks away.

  When my drink is ready I pay for everything and exit the store. There’s an independent pet supply store I like on Baltimore Avenue less than a mile from here so I head in that direction, cutting over to Baltimore on University Avenue.

  There are a lot of people out today, with the nice weather and all. I loop the Wawa bag full of Pringles over my forearm and sip my latte as I walk. And I guess it doesn’t suck to be showered and wearing a fresh hoodie and yoga pants. Then I see a silvery blue Porsche like Sawyer has and the Pringles feel like a shoe lodged in my gut. It’s not his car—the license plates are different—but how many stupid little things are going to remind me of him?

  I give up on blocking him from my mind and cave in to replaying every moment we’ve had together over the last eight weeks. The sex tape pisses me off the most. You make a sex tape with someone and they break up with you. Unbelievable. The Sawyer of the last week is nothing like the man I know him to be. I cannot have been that wrong about him. Something isn’t right.

  I reach the pet shop and push through the wood and glass door, immediately stopping to coo at an adorable kitty chilling in a large window display, set up to provide temporary housing while waiting for an adopter. She’s a long-haired calico named Shaggy. She puts her paws on the glass and leans in to inspect me. Not a kitten—she’s two, according to the sheet outside her enclosure. So she knows what it’s like to be happy and then get dumped. I should totally adopt her. I could sneak her into my dorm room. We’d snuggle every day and I’d let her know that unlike certain men, I won’t get sick of her in a couple of months. We’d be together forever. There’s even a nice view from my dorm window and a ledge perfect for a cat.

  I’m losing it.

  Plus, Debbie, the resident advisor on my floor, is a huge bitch and would probably call animal control and get me expelled. I don’t know why she hates me so much. So I locked myself out of my room a couple of times very early in the morning. Who hasn’t? And the wallpaper I hung in our room is that self-adhesive removable stuff. Sheesh.

  I move past the front door and move to the selection of fish food, picking a canister off the shelf as a white paw reaches out from underneath the display to swipe at my shoelace. I crouch down to scratch Molly behind the ears. She’s the resident store cat, living there full time. There’s nothing better than a store cat, I think as she squeezes out from under the shelving unit for a more serious petting.

  “How long has Shaggy been here?” I ask, nodding to the front window as I pay for my fish flakes.

  “Oh, a month or so now,” the owner tells me. “Such a sweet cat.”

  “I wish I could take her,” I say, looking longingly at the window. “But I live in a dorm room so it’s not really an option right now.”

  “She’ll find a home when the time is right,” she says, smiling and handing me my change. I toss the fish flakes in the bag with my Pringles and head out, stopping outside to tap my finger against the glass and wish Shaggy luck.

  Forty-Six

  I retrace my steps down Baltimore back towards my building on campus. By the time I pass 40th Street I’m done being sad about Sawyer. Now I’m pissed. And somewhat curious. But mostly pissed. Something was off last week when I met him at his office, on his birthday. And something happened to make him cancel on me the following weekend. Why didn’t he talk to me about it?

  Instead he reevaluated me. That’s what he said, reevaluated. Like I’m a business acquisition. But Sawyer has never been that guy. He was every bit as in love with me as I am with him. I know it, yet I keep replaying that breakup in my head. His tone of voice, bringing up his brother. Maybe he never loved me. Maybe I was just a challenge. Seducing the girl with a silly childhood crush on his brother.

  Stupid. That’s stupid. Don’t be that girl, I tell myself. Don’t let him make you doubt your worth. Don’t allow him to make you question what was the most honest, real relationship you’ve ever had. He doesn’t get that back. It was real.

  He could have been faking it, toying with me, but he’s not that good an actor. No one is that good an actor.

  Chloe’s in the room when I get back. I snort out loud when I see her sitting at her desk, tapping away on her computer.

  “Out all day, huh?” I say, tossing the bag of Pringles and fish food on my bed, then shrugging out of my coat.

  “I only said all that to get you out of the room. I just ran to the library,” she replies. “And I fed the fish.” She nods to the canister that’s been returned to my desk.

  “I walked two miles to buy more fish food!”

  “Sorry, you needed an intervention.” She doesn’t seem very sorry. “Besides, you seem happier. I think the walk did you good.”

  “I guess.”

  “So what are you going to do today?” Chloe inquires, standing up and rooting through the Wawa bag. She pulls out a can of barbecue-flavored Pringles and pops them open.

  “I think I’m going to stalk Sawyer.”

  “That sounds about right.” She nods. “Glad to see you’re back to your old self.”

  “Do you want to help? It’ll be just like old times. Except we’ll be spying on Sawyer, not Finn. And we’ll be spying at the Ritz-Carlton instead of from the attic vents in my parents’ house.”

  “Hmm.” Chloe pretends to think. “Tempting, but I think I’ll pass.”

  “This cannot be it, Chloe.” I blow out a breath and sit on the edge of my bed. “How can he just end things like this? I mean, was I imagining things between us that weren’t there?”

  “No,” she says quietly, running her finger around the potato chip can. “I’ve never seen a man look at a woman the way he looked at you. The guy is crazy about you.”

  “Was. He was crazy about me.”

  “He hasn’t changed his Facebook relationship status.”

  “He probably forgot.”

  “Because Sawyer Camden is a man who forgets the details, Everly?” Chloe shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  I gnaw on my lip. I know what she’s saying is true. Now what am I going to do about it?

  Forty-Seven

  I change into something a little more sleuth-worthy and fix my hair and makeup. It’s important to look your best when spying. Actually, I have no idea if that is true, but looking your best never hurts. And my nails… I shake my head. I’ve got chipped ten-day-old Porn-A-Thon still on my fingers. That will not do.

  I pull the nail polish box out from under my bed and rifle through it, weighing my options while I remove what’s left of the old polish. Ugh. Most of these will not work. I find a bottle named Fake It Till You Make It and unscrew the cap. I bought this for job interviewing this spring, but looking at the shimmery gold polish it’s probably better suited for spying than interviewing. Very 007. I think. I’ve only seen one Bond film, back in high school, and my attention was focused on giving my boyfriend a handjob, to be perfectly honest.

  Anyway, it’ll do.

  I give my nails a quick polish followed by a clear topcoat, then lean back on my bed, waving my hands a bit while I wait for them to dry. I’ve got to strategize. I have no idea if he’s home or not, or even if that matters. What am I intending to do? Use my keys to break into his place? Is it breaking in if I have a key? What if he changed the locks already? I don’t think so, though. Just like he didn’t change our relationship status on Facebook. I don’t think he’s changed the locks or deactivated the ID card that gives me access to his buil
ding.

  But what is my plan? I have no idea if he’s home or not. I can’t waltz into his apartment if he’s home. Why do I even want to waltz into his apartment? What am I going to find there? I could use my ID card and break into his office. But I’m not sure if the door to his office is locked on the weekends. I know I can get access to the building, but can I get access to his office? What difference would it even make? I rifled though his desk the first time I was in his office and didn’t find a single interesting thing. And computer hacking is way beyond my skill level.

  I could call Sandra. But no. It would make her a nervous wreck to be put in the middle. I can’t do that to her. Besides, she’s loyal to Sawyer, as she should be.

  So I’ll have to wing it.

  “Wish me luck,” I tell Chloe while sliding my shoes on. I’m definitely not wearing the Louboutins today. As much as they would blend in at the Ritz, they’re not exactly spy gear. Plus, they make a tapping noise when I walk on a polished surface and you never know when you’re gonna need a silent getaway.

  “Good luck! I’ll keep my cell phone on in case you need me to bail you out of jail later.”

  “You’re a good friend, Chloe,” I tell her, freeing my ponytail from under my coat.

  “Not really.” She shakes her head, smiling. “I’m secretly just happy I’m finally getting a crack at the Pringles,” she says, shaking the can. “You don’t share when you’re sulking.”

  I cab it over to Sawyer’s, then hover outside on the sidewalk, the doorman smiling brightly, hand on the door ready to grant me access. What am I doing? Stupid. This is stupid. The residential lobby isn’t large enough to hide in. I can’t very well just sit there. And he’d likely take the elevator straight to the parking garage anyway. Nice plan, Everly.

  I turn around and walk, stuffing my hands in my coat pockets. Dilworth Park is just around the corner in front of City Hall. I need to regroup. I arrive at the park a minute later. It’s pretty dead—being the first weekend in February isn’t helping, nice weather or not. I walk around the large rectangle of dormant lawn towards the temporary ice rink that workers are taking apart. I wander in that direction and watch for a bit, the walls of the rink coming down and being loaded into a waiting truck, backed up onto the pavement in preparation.