Logan didn’t come back, which is fine; I only half expected him to. I spent the night trying to come up with more names for his penis. I switched from ideas of food and combined the two things he told me are his favorite things in the world. Weed and sex. I’ve replaced the sex with masturbation. I now have an ongoing list comprising of the following:

Weed Whacker.

High Jacker.

Toke and Stroker.

Stoner Boner.

Masterbaker.

I’m pretty happy with all of them so far.

* * *

I walk to work today, because the bike has a flat, and knowing me, I’ll never fix it. I plan to draw up a sign offering it to another good home. The Copic markers are still where I left them in the middle of the shop floor, and so I pick them up, put them in the safe. Before Lachlan gets here this afternoon, I plan to bring the desk from the office out to the shop floor so he can draw on that. Obviously, I made the plans before his brother and I had sex on it. I’ll wipe it down. He’ll never know.

After doing my opening checklist, I go back to my usual spot behind the counter and check my phone. Nothing. No surprise. I send my mother a text:

I send my grandmother a text:

I write out a text to Joy: Why the fuck does it even matter? You cheated on him.

I delete the text.

For a few minutes, I watch people walk past the store one way. Then the other. They never look inside.

I jump on Facebook, and I’m bombarded with status updates from Carter—the ex.

I love her.

I love her.

I love her.

That’s not what they say, but that’s how I read them, and that’s okay. It doesn’t hurt like it used to. Then I remember Logan’s friend request sitting in purgatory. I accept the request from Bing Bong—seller of cheap Ray Bans and smile when a picture of him replaces the generic white silhouette and blue backdrop. The night at Lucy’s, they mentioned how the twins are YouTube famous, and that’s why they all have their accounts on lock down. Their dad even had to put up a security gate at their property because teenage girls were starting to show up. I’ve watched a few of their videos. Logan’s not in any that I saw.

There isn’t a lot going on in his profile. Mainly pictures of him in what I assume is Cambodia, building a house. There’s a picture of him with another guy, who I assume is Lucas. Lucas has his arm around a girl with thick, black glasses. She’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. Everything is beautiful. Especially the picture of Logan holding a banner that reads: Habitat for Humanity, and now it all makes sense, at the same time it doesn’t, because I’m pretty sure that no one could force Logan into doing something like this unless he wanted to. Logan is nice, and he treats it as though it should be a secret.

I go through more and more of his profile, because I have my own secrets: I like Logan Preston.

I’m smiling, and I shake my head at myself, but I can’t stop my face’s reaction to my admittance.

I like Logan Preston.

Every time I say it in my head, I scroll down a little more.

Then stop.

The girl is beautiful: long, blond hair, and bright brown eyes, and the kind of smile that’s hard to fake. Logan has his arm around her, and they’re both smiling at the camera. The background is the house they’re building, the Habitat for Humanity banner hanging above where the front door will eventually sit. Her name is Casey Allen, and it’s her photo, and he’s tagged in it. The caption reads: More like Habitat for Hotties.

I click into her profile—completely public—and feel the pierce of my heart cause my entire body to deflate. We weren’t anything, I convince myself. We were a one-night stand that meant nothing.

We still mean nothing.

Because three weeks ago, Casey Allen was in a hotel room, and this boy she’s dubbed “hottie” is under a sheet, covering just his junk. He’s reaching out, likely telling her not to take the picture, but she does it anyway, and she posts the photo to show off to her friends, to show off to me, because social media is the place where hope goes to die.

It would be stupid to cry.

I cry anyway.

And send another text to my mother:

* * *

By early afternoon I’ve convinced myself that it’s not a big deal. Really. I just… I need to understand the meaning of casual sex, that’s all. This is what happens: Boy meets girl. Boy and girl have sex. The end. I’ve never done casual before, and so this is normal. This feeling is normal.

My mom hasn’t called or written back. According to my grandmother, she’s away for business somewhere where there’s no signal. It would’ve been great if she let her daughter know.

There are two girls in the store (possibly the only bright side to my day), and it’s taking all the power in me not to follow them around, beg them to buy something. I’ve seen them around at the parties Joy used to take me to, but I’ve never said a word to them and doubt they have any idea who I am. They’re talking about their plans; plans for the future, the weekend, tonight. All things I don’t have.

Jealousy is a petty emotion.

“Will’s taking me away for the weekend,” the brunette says.

“Oh. Em. Gee, Bree!” says the blonde, clutching a hand to her heart. “You’re so lucky. Will’s such a nice guy.”

“I know, right? I did good with him.”

“Totally.” They move from the notebooks to the pens, and the blonde says, “There’s this party tonight, but I’m not sure if I’ll go…”

“Why not?”

“I’m waiting on a call.”

“From a guy?”

“Yep.”

“Who?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“No, Bella!” says Bree.

Bella?

Why does that sound so…

Bella with the Boobies.

She does have boobies.

“No, Bella, what?” Bella mocks.

Her friend rolls her eyes. “Your not wanting to say can only mean one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Logan Preston.”

My heart sinks to my stomach, and I rise a few inches, flex my hands at my sides. “He called me last week,” she says. Liar. He was gone last week. “On Thursday,” she adds. “As soon as he got back from Cambodia.”

My eyes drift shut. I force myself to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.

“You’re such a sucker for bad boys,” Bree says. “I take it you slept with him… again.”

“Hell, yeah, I did. And I have no regrets. Not everyone gets to have a Will in their life.”

Bree sighs.

I glance down at my hands, at the freckles, at my unpainted nails, and the half-dozen silver rings on my fingers. I try to name each stone, just so I have something else to concentrate on other than their conversation. But they’re talking louder now, coming closer, and when I look up, Bella has two notebooks and a pen in her grasp. She smiles at me, the kind of All-American-Girl smile that makes you fake smile back without realizing. She dumps her items on the counter and turns to her friend. “And then he found me at the party on Friday.”

The party on Friday. I was at the party on Friday.

“I thought he left,” Bree says.

He did! With me…

“He did,” Bella confirms. “He says he had to take care of some business. But he came back and found me. We spent the night in one of the rooms.” She turns to me, but I can’t see her expression beyond my pain. “Can I get these?” She’s pointing to the notebooks and pen. “You take debit card, right?”

I nod, ring up her purchase. “Sixteen dollars and fifty cents, thank you.” My voice breaks.

I break.

As soon as they’re out the door, I flip the sign to closed and go to the office, where I take out the Copic markers from the safe and put them in a nicer box that still hides its content. Then I flick off all the lights and lock up the shop. I don’t bother putting a note up. It won’t make a difference. I take the markers to Lucy’s bookstore. She’s sitting in an armchair at the end of one of the aisles, a place where she likes to “hide” from customers. I leave the markers on the counter, and as soon as I’m back out on the street, I send her a text:

I delete my Facebook app, and switch off my phone. Then I walk to the bus stop and prepare to go to an empty house where silence will greet me and loneliness will consume me.