Page 156 of If Ever

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The clock on the microwave changes as the minutes drag slowly into hours. I've checked my phone for messages every ten minutes, making sure the volume's on high. Every possibility and scenario torture me as I wait helplessly by the window.

I envision Tom falling under the gorgeous Barbie's spell complete with her moving in and him telling me to leave. I shake my head to clear away the dismal thoughts. I'm sure I'm wrong. I have to be.

My head aches, not to mention my neck. I've felt steadily worse all day and I'm not sure if it's because of the deep-seated pain in my heart, or that I'm sick.

The vision of Tom walking away replays itself in my head all afternoon. I'm all alone again. Just like after my dad left. At least I didn't cry and beg like when I was a kid, but the experience still feels eerily the same, heart-wrenching desolation. My throat is tight and I feel hot. I down a couple painkillers and return to sentry duty at the cold window and continue my vigil. He said he'd be back soon. He promised. But it's been hours.

After another hour where I watch the outside light change from bright day to the low lights of late afternoon, I can't take this anymore. I've been acting like a doormat and that's not the girl I am.

I pick up my phone with the cracked screen, my silent companion, pausing to decide what to say in my text to him. I settle on, "I'm really worried. Please call me. Text me. Anything." I hit send and toss the miserable, cracked phone on the couch beside me.

But there's no response. My phone remains painfully silent, leaving me to contemplate the reality of the situation. He's been gone all day after saying he wouldn't be. I don't matter enough for him to text me back or even a quick phone call? I swallow the truth. My throat burns despite the painkillers.

Random people walk along the sidewalk below, but no one enters the building. Then a FedEx truck parks and the driver runs up the steps of our building. I’m startled a moment later when the buzzer goes off. I leave my spot by the window and allow him in.

“Chelsea Barnes?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Sign here please.”

I scribble my signature and accept the envelope. Who would send me a package? Who other than my closest friends know where I am? The only thing that comes to mind is possibly a job offer or rejection from the Hamilton Literary Agency. I thought the interview went well, but to FedEx a response seems odd.

I read the return address and freeze.

It’s my father’s lawyer.

This can’t be good.

I tear open the mailer, pull out the paperwork, and scan the letter. I’m confused. It’s about my trust. It’s been cancelled? I’m not to contact my father again? I page through some financial documents.

This doesn’t make sense. I slow down and read it slowly. My trust has been changed, naming me legally and wholly entitled and responsible for all assets within. What? I read on. My father has removed himself from all guardianship, and he requests I not contact him at anytime at present or in the future.

I slump onto the couch. He can’t stand the idea of having to deal with me again, so he turned over my inheritance. Or was it guilt after learning what happened? Either way he’s rejecting me for once and for all. That bastard.

I sit there, stunned, staring at the paperwork and lost in a world where I never seem to matter enough. This shouldn’t bother me so much, since the majority of the memories of my father are of him not caring, and yet it does. And how have I spent my day? Waiting on a man I love to come back to me, yet there’s no word from him.

What have I missed? Were there signs I didn't see that Tom’s been unhappy? I cringe thinking of how I sent him pics of me flirting with other guys the night of Anna’s bachelorette party. He was mad, understandably.

I was mad with jealousy. I admit it. He's incredibly talented, handsome, funny, and sweet. Of course everyone else thinks so, but I hate sharing him, and he doesn't seem to mind all the attention. So why am I sitting here like a helpless child waiting for someone to fix the situation? If anyone knows how to take care of themselves, it's me. So why am I doing nothing? Waiting, hoping he'll come back to me? It's like I'm relying on a man for happiness. When did I become that girl?

The realization slaps me in the face like a wet rag. What the hell have I been doing? I glance around the apartment and my eyes land on the dried up fern in the corner. When I asked about the dead plant, he said to leave it. I thought maybe it was another of his superstitions, but did he keep it because it reminded him of Barbie? I examine it, thick with dust and cobwebs. Was he hoping she'd come back to him all this time? How many ways have I been a fool? Maybe I am his rebound girl and now that she's here, will he go back to her? Is that why he hasn't come home or called?

Without thinking I grab the plant and hurl it at the wall. The pot shatters with shards of glass shooting across the room. A cloud of dust chokes the air, and crumpled leaves litter the floor.

I stare at the mess. "Oh God, what have I done?" I'm about to clean it up, when my phone rings. I whip around at the glowing phone emitting the loud ring and lunge for it.

But it isn't Tom. It's Anna.

I fight back tears of disappointment. After the fourth ring, I answer. "Hey, Anna," my voice croaks in a husky tone.

"You sound terrible."

"I'm coming down with something. My throat's really sore. What's up?"

"My mother is driving me crazy. You have to save me," she says in an exasperated voice.

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