There was a password on my iPhone, but it appears Alex knew it.
He knew I knew that he knew.
I lay in bed, staring at my ceiling, my cell phone resting on my chest.
My mom would yell at me for that. She says you can get cancer that way, by keeping your phone too close to your body.
I don’t know why I’m even thinking about that right now.
Not after what just happened.
Not after what I just found.
I stare at it. I imagine it jumping with my heartbeat. I imagine it starting on fire so I never, ever have to find out.
Alex left me something on my phone.
Something in a photo album. One that I don’t recognize. One that I don’t remember being on there before Alex took my phone away from me. One that is titled FORRILEY.
A photo album that I definitely have never, ever seen before.
The first picture is the album—the thumbnail—and it’s blurred. I can’t tell what it is. No matter how long I look at it.
But it’s the color of skin.
I close my eyes slowly and then reopen them, focusing on the ceiling. What did he take pictures of while he was sitting at his desk all day? Am I even ready to see this?
Is this going to be gross?
No. Alex isn’t like that.
I bite down on the inside of my bottom lip.
I click the album open.
The first photo is the blurred photo.
And the second photo is of me. Asleep. My right hand is tucked under my head, and my hair is wild, like I’ve been tossing and turning. My legs are tangled in the sheets.
My sheets.
In my bed.
Oh my God.
I flip through the rest of the pictures quickly. It’s all me, in my white tank top and pajama pants, in various positions as I slept. In some, my arms are splayed out. In some, my top has ridden up, showing my stomach. In others, I’ve barely moved in my bed.
My bed.
In my own house.
Alex didn’t take any pictures when he confiscated my phone during class. He broke into my house when I was sleeping and took pictures of me with my own phone.
And somehow, I had no idea.
Why would Alex do that? Why wouldn’t he tell me he was there, or wake me up? Why would he chance getting caught sneaking into my room?
I think of Alex in my room at night, watching me, and my heart feels strange and scared and angry and excited, all at once. What is this, though? Is this some sort of insurance? Is Alex trying to scare me?
This is not normal boyfriend behavior. Even a girl who has never actually dated knows that.
It’s been three days since he told me he was going to break it off with Jacqueline. Three days. And he hasn’t done it. Jacqueline’s teal-blue car is still parked out in front of their curb every single day, and every single day Alex tells me the same exact thing: Soon. I swear. I love you.
I tell him that I love him back, but a little hate seeps in around the corners. And then I let him go home to Jacqueline.
My room is strangely cold, but I don’t want to go down the hall to check the thermostat. I just want to lay here. My heart hurts in my chest in a way that has become strange and familiar all at once.
And I think of Alex, standing over me while I slept, my phone in his hands.
My phone buzzes, turning the screen from my strange sleeping photos to Kolbie, smiling sweetly at the camera, her hands behind her back. I want to turn her off, to be wholly alone, but I force myself to answer.
“Hey, girl.” I try to sound visibly cheerful, but I feel strange. My skin feels odd, like it’s falling asleep over my muscles.
“Don’t ‘hey, girl’ at me, Riley. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Her tone is definitely Pissed Kolbie. I’ve heard her this way before, but never at me.
I cringe and hold the phone about an inch away from my ear. “Uh, what?”
“How many times did I call you? Don’t you think maybe your friends need you? Or are you too caught up in Ri-Ri land to care?”
“I . . . don’t know,” I finish, because it’s the truth. I suppose I noticed they’d called some, but I actually went home early on Friday and I’ve spent most of the weekend studying and organizing, with thoughts of Alex crawling around in the back of my head. Which was stupid. I always swore I’d never be one of those girls. And maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t checked my messages all weekend. I pull my covers over my head but keep my phone to my ear. I deserve to hear her out. I know it.
“Well, you’re being a shit friend, Riley, because first you walked out on Sandeep, and you wouldn’t even talk to me about it.”
“Yeah, well, I panicked, okay? I don’t want him to get in the way of my priorities. I’m sorry.” My words are defensive.
“I know, Riley, but if you were just going to ghost a good guy, I wouldn’t have set you up with Jamal’s best friend. You could have at least given him some sort of explanation.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and this time I actually do sound properly sorry.
“Just don’t expect me to set you up with someone good again until you can actually handle it. Sandeep felt like shit, just so you know. And so did I. He really liked you, Ri.” Her voice softens, just slightly. “I’m not saying you had to be with him if you weren’t into him. And if he did something weird, you’d tell me, right? I won’t be mad. I swear.”
“I know. And he didn’t. Please don’t think that.” And I do know. And I like him, too. There’s a part of me that wishes I never touched Alex, so this Sandeep thing could happen. I shift beneath my blankets, my legs twisting up in the sheets. What would I be doing now if I hadn’t ever gotten involved with Alex? Would I be talking to Sandeep instead of hiding out in my own house, feeling completely ignored and depressed?
“And you haven’t answered Neta’s calls, either.”
“So you guys have been talking about me?” My voice is cutting. I can’t believe they’re hanging out without me, talking behind my back.
Kolbie is quiet for a few seconds, and then: “Well, more about her dead grandmother, but yeah, I guess so. She was worried about you. I was more pissed.”
My body turns strange and cold for a half second. “Neta’s grandmother died?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“But she wasn’t sick, was she?”
“No. She had a heart attack. And Neta’s been calling you and calling you and so have I, but you haven’t been there.”
“Is Neta okay?”
“No.”
Kolbie’s furious at me. This isn’t about Sandeep at all. Of course it’s not. It’s about Neta and the fact that I’m a completely horrible friend. Why couldn’t I just check a text? Or return a call? Or do anything besides be completely stupid and self-involved?
“The funeral’s Monday. First Trinity Church. The arrangements are in your texts, if you’d ever care to check them.” She says it like I’ll probably turn her down—like she expects me to. Like I’m the biggest disappointment ever.
“I’ll be there, Kolbie.”
“I should think so.” Kolbie’s voice is thin ice over a winter pond. Brittle and cold and hateful. And I don’t fault her for it.
“Listen, Kol—”
But she’s not there. She’s hung up without saying good-bye.