Page 75 of Revenge Cake

When I had an emergency session with Dr. Scott this morning to process everything from the past few days, he asked me if I had reached out to counseling services at IU yet, and I could only stare at him blankly, the full force of my obsession hit me for the first time. For the last three weeks, my only thoughts about graduate school were tied to my revenge list. I haven’t given a single thought to my future.

My passion. My career. My hopes and dreams.

How did I dare call myself a feminist?

If I think about it too much, my heart starts to race, and I don’t need that. Instead, I’m taking action. I’m sitting here with my coffee in one hand and iPad in the other, searching for housing in Bloomington, Indiana. The flutter in my pulse is from the caffeine, I tell myself, and not the self-loathing from realizing I didn’t even think about housing before this morning.

I hear Brenna in the kitchen. I know it’s her by the sound of her bouncing footsteps, probably making her usual breakfast—Earl Grey tea and instant oatmeal. After a few minutes, she walks from the kitchen—a bowl of oatmeal and spoon in each hand—and sits on the couch next to me. She leans against my shoulder as she looks at my iPad. “How’s the house hunt going?”

“Phenomenal,” I say, hoping positivity will calm my frantic thoughts.

“I can live in a mansion at the price we pay for a single room in this crumbling, haunted house.”

She points to my phone, speaking with her mouth full of oatmeal. “Is that the price of rent? For a two bedroom? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“And look at it!” I click on the picture reel and scroll. “It has marble counter tops in the kitchen and the bathrooms. I shit you not.”

Brenna’s jaw drops. “Does Jay-Z own this apartment?”

“Right?”

She places her hand on my forearm. “So, I’ve been thinking of asking you about something, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up ’cause it’s just a kernel of an idea at this point.”

I turn to face her. “Okay…”

She takes a deep breath. “What if I moved with you to Bloomington?”

My eyes open wide. “You know it would be my dream come true, but I could never expect you to do it. What would you do in Bloomington?”

“Get my teaching credential, like I would anywhere else. It’s a better situation if housing is that cheap. California isn’t really the place for teaching, unless you want to live in poverty all your life. To be honest, I think I was counting on Armaan’s family money whenever I thought about the future. I thought we would live in his parent’s beach house or something, which is just sad and shows how stupid I’ve been, especially since Armaan wouldn’t even commit to that with me. He’d probably rather be a squatter with Lauren. They’ll probably both smoke weed all day and—”

I place a hand on her arm to stop her from spiraling down this path. “Does this mean you’re planning to break up with him?”

She nods slowly. “I have to. This has gone on long enough. I still love him…” When she trails off and averts her eyes, I lift my hand from her arm to her shoulder.

“It’s okay to cry, honey. Breakups are hard.”

She grimaces, a tear running down her cheek. “I fucking hate crying.” Her voice is strangled.

“I do too, but it always feels good after you let it out.”

“Fucking Armaan!” she shouts, flapping her hands over her face as if to dry her tears.

We’re both alerted to the sound of my phone ringing. I pick it up from the couch, take one glance at the name on the screen, and throw it to the floor.

“Logan?” Brenna asks.

I only nod, not wanting to take the attention away from her own pain. I stroke my fingers at the back of her neck while she quietly cries. Her head jerks up when my phone chimes. “He left a voicemail this time! Can we listen to it? It will make me feel better. I hope it’s really sad and dopey, like everything he does.”

I can only smile reluctantly. I lean forward to pick up the phone from the ground. I hold it between us and press the speaker button. When the voicemail starts, Logan is already in the middle of speaking.

“—uck you fuck you fuck you fuck you… Oh shit. Sorry, I didn’t hear it beep. To be clear, I was saying ‘fuck you’ to your voicemail greeting, not to you—”

Brenna rolls her eyes, mouthing, “Oh my god.”

“—I’ve heard it so many times that it doesn’t even feel like it’s you anymore. It’s this asshole cunt bitch who won’t let me talk to you, and I hate her—”

“Nice opening, Logan,” Brenna says.

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