drop it back into the metal organizer that hangs by the old rotary phone I have no idea how to use. “You can fuck right off with that. I have never wanted—”
“You know why I still choose Rhodes?” Her eyes are the brightest topaz-honey-hazel I’ve ever seen, smudged with dark eyeliner spilling over to stain her cheeks. “Because she doesn’t ask me to choose anyone.”
“She doesn’t think she did anything wrong,” I say. I plant two hands on the counter and hoist myself over.
“That makes two of us,” Sarah says.
It’ll be an hour before Dad’s idling in the parking lot to pick me up from my shift.
Hell will freeze over before I call and actually admit to him that I left work early over an argument with Sarah. I already know exactly what he would say: Vrionideses are known for their work ethic! You have to think of the name you’re making for yourself.
Consider what you want people to think when others speak of you.
Think of the way I’ve worked to establish a name for this family, too, and ask yourself if you’re adding to my work or taking away from it.
I shove earbuds into my ears and crank up the music on my phone as loud as it will go, in hopes that it will drown out the guilt clawing at my subconscious.
The boulevard that stretches in front of Sylvia’s bustles with activity in both directions; the sky overhead feels low enough to touch, with clouds threatening rain, snuffing out what’s left of the light with sunset around the corner.
Two by two, streetlights flicker on and a cool, resin-scented breeze tosses the curls around my face. It’s going to rain soon.
I have an hour alone—Dad thinks I’m working, and Sarah won’t have the nerve to come hunt me down for another day at least. I might as well be invisible, and the thought is delicious.
One hour in the back of a coffee shop with Hearts and Spades is more than I could ever ask for. The one on the corner—a sedate, locally owned place that’s been around since the nineties—is perfect.
I duck inside just before the first drops of rain hit the sidewalk.
With a swipe and a tap of my thumb, the Slash/Spot app—and Alice—is waiting and ready.
Before I know it, I’m pouring my heart through the screen and out into the stratosphere.
* * *
I-Kissed-Alice 11:22a: I posted H&S update 48 before I left for therapy this morning
Curious-in-Cheshire 6:18p: I don’t know what’s fucking wrong with me
I-Kissed-Alice 6:18p: hello to you too
Curious-in-Cheshire 6:19p: hey. sorry.
Curious-in-Cheshire 6:19p: Every time I work with bff, it turns into an argument
I-Kissed-Alice 6:19p: oh. uh oh. What happened
Curious-in-Cheshire 6:19p: we argued
I-Kissed-Alice 6:19p: don’t get tart with me
Curious-in-Cheshire 6:20p: sorry.
Curious-in-Cheshire 6:20p: Just. Like. I should know by now, right? I need to just. Idk. Refuse.
I-Kissed-Alice 6:20p: my therapist always says ~arguments are invitations, but you can decline them~.
I-Kissed-Alice 6:20p: or something.
I-Kissed-Alice 6:21p: idk how the saying goes, but you get my point
Curious-in-Cheshire 6:21p: how has that worked for you
I-Kissed-Alice 6:21p: well, considering the fact that 75% of my problems with people are because I’m too afraid to piss them off to say anything at all, I don’t really think that’s my issue. But theoretically I think I understand how that could be the case.
I-Kissed-Alice 6:22p: catharsis, and stuff.
Curious-in-Cheshire 6:22p: in the moment, that’s all there is: screaming at someone. It’s like popping a zit.
I-Kissed-Alice 6:22p: def know about *that* life. There isn’t enough Accutane on the planet
Curious-in-Cheshire 6:23p: I should probably text dad and tell him I finished work early. Gotta go.
Curious-in-Cheshire 6:23p: <3
* * *
CHAPTER 4
RHODES
Username: I-Kissed-Alice
Last online: 2h ago
According to Instagram, Snapchat, and Twitter, Sarah and Iliana’s fun didn’t begin until long after I left this morning.
There’s proof in discreet pics of their matching blue-black DIY manicures with Sylvia’s oak-veneered wonderland in the background, and a thousand puppy-face selfies, and videos of Sarah singing along with the music playing over the restaurant speakers in the background.
It shouldn’t matter—they’re friends in their own right, of course. I was the one who left early. But it didn’t stop me from spending the entire ride to Atlanta scrolling their feeds, witnessing a version of Sarah I’ve never met.
It’s all beginning to feel intentional.
It makes my bones hurt; it gives me a headache and makes me tired.
The woman who sits across the table from me is the very epitome of a child of the seventies. Graying hair falls in waves past her shoulders, earrings fashioned from feathers