Neil huffs. “Well, I guess when you put it that way…”

“There’s no other way to put it.”

He looks all crestfallen and lamby. I am about to lean over and kiss him when his phone lights up to tell him he has a text. I don’t mean to look; I’m not like that—a snoop. But I see a girl’s name. He grabs for the phone, but I’m faster. It’s automatic. My hand punches in his passcode and …

all

I

see

are

tits

“Helena…”

Why is he saying my name? Why is he even saying my name? We are both standing up now, me still holding his phone looking at the tits. The pictures are still coming. I didn’t know tits could be selfied from so many angles. I’m shaking. The phone drops from my hand, into the sand.

“I have to tell you something,” he says. He’s advancing on me, slowly. Like I’m some a-bomb about to explode. BOOM!

“You’re a cheating douchebag?”

“Helena, let me talk.”

“Hold that thought,” I say. Then I punch him. Right in the eye, and like my dad taught me. Pull back, throw forward. His head rolls, then snaps forward like a bobble head. Boing, boing, boing on his skinny turkey neck. He lifts his hand to his eye, and I slap him so that he has a hit on each side of his face.

“Helena!” he yells, holding out his hand for me to stop.

I like the shock on his face. I like that we’re both shocked.

“Let me explain,” he tries.

I raise my hand to hit him again, and he flinches back.

“How long has this been happening?”

His face blanches.

“Not long.”

“How long?” I yell.

“A year,” he says, dropping his head.

“A year,” I whisper. Suddenly, there’s no more hitting in me. Just wasteland. My shoulders slump forward.

“Why?” I ask. And then as a noise rises from my throat—a sob—and I say the most pathetic thing. “What did I do wrong?”

Neil drops his head. “Nothing, Helena.” And then, “She’s pregnant.”

I can’t stand. I drop hard onto the sand and look at the surf. There are no waves in this part of Florida, so instead of surfers, you get little kids in Dora the Explorer swimsuits.

“You’ve been busy,” he starts. “It just happened, and it was a mistake.” Saying it was a mistake doesn’t make it hurt less; in fact, it feels starker underneath all of this sun, and heat, and sand. It’s like they’re punishing me too.

“I’m sorry,” he says. But there’s not a sorry big enough for a betrayal like this. A year. Neil was the one I was making plans with. Talking about the future with. After the initial shock, the hurt surges forward. I stand up. I can’t be here. I can’t look at him. He has a zit on the side of his neck: bright, and red, and bulbous. I’m so revolted that I ever dated him.

“Please, Helena,” he says. “It was a mistake. I love you.” But I’m not having it, and his use of the word ‘love’ makes me laugh. Love is faithful, love is kind, love is patient. Love is not—I wasn’t thinking. I grab my things, stumble away. The dream, I think. This was in the dream. And her name is Sadie.

“Avada Kedavra,” I whisper at Sadie.

I walk home. Not because I can’t call someone. Hell, Della would be there in a second with a machete. I just need to think. I take a selfie while I wait at a red light and send it to the MEM folder. I call it, Fuck Love.

Neil doesn’t want to be with Sadie, though Sadie wants to be with Neil. Isn’t that a funny thing? He wanted her enough to risk my heart. I hear this all through phone messages, e-mails, texts, and Della. Apparently, during my quarter-life crisis, Della and Neil became close. I’d feel betrayed, but Neil already took care of that one. Sadie is keeping the baby, of course, because her dad is a minister, and she is pro-life. Not pro-abstinence. Neil says he will be in the baby’s life as much as Sadie will let him. He wants to work things out with me. I don’t like working out of any kind. Not the body or the heart. Just thinking about working things out makes me tired. I am sleepy for working things out. I tell Neil to go to hell, and then I cry for two days. Was it me? Was I too cold? Too inexperienced? Not pretty enough? Not good enough in bed? And when disloyal, seed-sowing scum buckets slept with other girls, why did women look inward to find fault in themselves? It wasn’t my fault. Actually, maybe it was. Fuck it. What did it matter anyway?

I go get drinks at Tavern on Hyde. I haven’t heard a peep from Kit in weeks. His girlfriend, on the other hand, has been camped out in my bed, this time in support of me. She still asks me to make her snacks, even though I’m the one with the broken heart. She even tells me that it’ll keep my mind off things. “You need to stay busy.”

I am avoiding her tonight, though apparently not her boyfriend. All I can think about is Kit and the dream. How he was almost warning me. Perhaps in my subconscious, I knew. Neil hadn’t been Neil for a long time. In hindsight, we hadn’t connected in … a year.

I stumble into Tavern on Hyde with a severely tangled braid, and dark circles under my eyes. Kit is talking to some of his customers on the other side of the bar when he sees me. He does a double take, and I wonder how rough I look. You look rough in a vulnerable, pretty way, I tell myself. Though I should probably start combing my hair again.

“Hello,” he slides a drink in front of me before I’ve even had the chance to sit down. “How’s your heart?”