Chapter 11
“HOLY CRAP,” I MUMBLE to myself.
I’m sitting alone in Julie’s car, parked outside of Monte’s. My shift begins in five minutes, and I’m most likely going to be late. An iDiary account with fifty-seven thousand followers called @makeupbreakup reshared ten of my posts last night with the hashtag “#breakup-advice.” From that, my account has fully blown up. All my notifications are maxed out at one hundred, and I’m gaining so many followers that the count jumps by hundreds every time I refresh the page.
Right now I’m at 3,072.
I refresh, and boom—two hundred more have piled in.
Am I going viral?
Every message I’ve answered on my account has gained hundreds of likes. There are way too many comments to count. Even my unread message count won’t stop growing. Right now, there’s over one hundred. With every passing minute, the number rises.
I’m glad I skipped the coffee this morning, because this has given me enough energy to last the day. I feel like some sort of celebrity, basking in the glow of strangers’ compliments. I’ve never been told so often that I’m good at something. It’s like all the validation I’ve been craving for the past eighteen years has now been thrown my way.
For the first time, it feels like I’m effortlessly good at something—something I enjoy, too. Because I do enjoy this. Answering these questions, helping other people, it makes me feel happy. Like, I’m really good at something that is positively affecting other peoples’ lives.
Even just getting out of the car is a struggle. I want to drive back home and spend the day answering questions. Sadly, I can’t. I’m tucking my phone away when Suzy calls. I shoot her a quick text and promise to call her later.
As I walk toward Monte’s front door, I notice something weird: Wilson’s car isn’t here. Which is very strange, considering that he doesn’t ever miss a day of work, if we ignore his blowup last night. In fact, since he took over as manager, a few people swear he’s been sleeping here. It’s a rumor that’s been fueled by people working the night shift who have spotted him in his office well after midnight.
When I step inside Monte’s, Anita walks toward me like she’s on a mission. And she’s not in her squirrel costume.
“Jackie—”
I interrupt. “What’s going on?”
“Everything,” she says. “Wilson didn’t show up today. And he never returned last night.”
“What? Where is he?”
“No one knows. He just disappeared. And we can’t call him, either. None of us have his number. I called Monte Jr. a few times, but he hasn’t picked up.”
“This is impossible. This is Wilson we’re talking about, the most responsible person on the planet. He wouldn’t just abandon his job.”
“Seems like that’s exactly what he did,” Anita says.
The next question on my mind is whether or not he’s safe. Anita seems to read my thoughts. “I think he’s okay,” she says. “He must have come by last night to lock up at some point, and then again this morning to open the doors—that’s how we got in today. But he’s leaving before anyone sees him. Weird, right?”
“So weird.” I can barely focus on what Anita’s saying. My mind spins with a never-ending list of questions. If Wilson isn’t here, how do we run Monte’s? And if he isn’t here, where is he?
And wait— Why exactly do I care so much? For the first time, I look around Monte’s and realize that there isn’t a boss in sight.
“So you mean we’re alone at work, no management, no customers... And we’re basically getting paid to do nothing ?” I’m beginning to think this might actually be the best-case scenario.
Anita shakes her head. “I thought the exact same thing. Until I realized today is payday. Without Wilson here, no one’s cashing a check.”
Abort mission. This is very much worst- case scenario.
“Shit. I need my check.” If this place goes down in flames, that’s one less source of income, which means I can kiss my end-of-summer dreams goodbye.
I let out a loud sigh. Of course Wilson would leave me here to clean up his mess.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I say. “You stay out here and make sure everything is okay. I’m going to check Wilson’s office. Maybe there’s a file somewhere with his contact info on it.”
“Good idea.” We high-five. “Let’s do this.”
I walk into Wilson’s office like I own the place and take a seat in his chair. It smells alarmingly like the cologne he wears. It’s like woodsy, peppery, but then a little sweet like fruit? I hate that it actually smells good.
Okay. I need to focus. We’re hunting for clues now, Jackie . I don’t know when I became Cupid and Nancy Drew, but I’m kind of loving these new titles.
First things first, I try to log into Wilson’s computer. Of course it’s password protected. I try different variations of Wilson’s name, Kenzie’s name, their names combined. I debate trying his birthday before realizing I have no idea when it is. Eventually, I give up. The computer is a bust.
Moving on, I search the drawers for some document with his cell phone number on it—even an address would suffice—or for any spare keys lying around we can use to lock the doors. Each drawer is so meticulously organized it feels like an actual crime to be digging around inside it. One has boxes of pens, staples, sticky notes, gum packets, and Band-Aids. Another is filled with files overflowing with papers. I briefly skim through those, with no luck. Just old forms signed by Monte Jr. that date back nearly a decade.
The last drawer I open sticks. I jiggle it a bit, really using a lot of force, and manage to pop it open. There are two things inside: a white envelope and a black tie. The tie may as well not even be there. I’m locked in on the envelope.
Kenzie’s envelope.
The one she gave to me to pass along to Wilson.
The letter he read before storming out of here and never coming back.
I become overwhelmed by morality for a split second. On the one hand, the contents of this letter may be extremely private. Even though I dislike Wilson, it still feels wrong to dig around in his personal life like that. Not to mention this is Kenzie’s private business, too. Whatever she wrote in that letter was never meant to reach my eyes.
On the other hand, these are dire circumstances. Wilson can’t be reached. Monte Jr. isn’t picking up, either. And if this letter was given to Wilson the last day he was seen at Monte’s, the contents of it may be vital for figuring out what is going on with him and saving this business. Wilson would want that, no? For us to find a way to keep Monte’s running, no matter what?
With my mind made up, I open the envelope. Inside is a sheet of lined paper folded into a neat square. The paper is creased everywhere, like it’s been read and reread a hundred times. I unfold the letter and see what must be Kenzie’s handwriting. Looping cursive letters fill the page. Before I can stop myself, I begin to read.
Wilson,
I never meant to tell you this in a letter. I was told that writing it out might help process my emotions, and honestly, this just felt... better. Easier. It might make me a coward, but this feels like the best way to get this off my chest.
I loved our life together back in NY. We had the city, school, dreams that were so aligned and a future that felt so attainable. But then your uncle got sick and you decided to take a year off school to go home and run the business for him. And believe me, you did the right thing. If I were you, I’d do that, too. I wanted to support you—I came here to Ridgewood for the summer with you. I thought this would be enough. That you, me, us would be enough.
I don’t think it is. This small-town life isn’t what I want, Wilson. I want to be in the city, and I want you there with me, reaching for the same goal. I want to graduate from business school together and build a career. But your life has taken a different path, and I don’t think I can follow you down it anymore.
It feels so selfish to say this to you. You are going through so much, so much more than I can even imagine. I’m sorry for adding to it. I’m sorry for turning into another burden, but I can’t be with you anymore. This new direction was never a mutual decision, and I should’ve spoken up sooner.
I’m going to be flying back to NYC in two weeks. Maybe we can talk before I leave?
I’m sorry.
Kenz
I end up reading it twice. Then I fold the paper on its creases and place it back in the envelope. It feels fragile, like I’m holding this intimate part of both Kenzie and Wilson in my hands. I don’t like this—I don’t like knowing this and holding up a magnifying glass to their relationship.
The contents of the letter have affirmed that I shouldn’t have read it, but I’m glad I did. At least now I understand what caused Wilson to leave. At least now I know why he hasn’t been at work. Although I’m still very annoyed with him, I’m not sure I can blame him for leaving. I wouldn’t be here either if the person I loved just ripped my heart out.
For the first time, I feel something for Wilson that isn’t a deep hatred. It’s more like... pity. Compassion, maybe. There isn’t an urgent desire to check on him or be a shoulder for him to lean on. But... I hope he’s okay.
Poor Kenzie, too. To sit back and watch the life they built together slowly slip away? Not to mention how guilty she feels, knowing this breakup is quite literally happening at the worst possible moment for Wilson.
Then I remember another detail Kenzie mentioned. But then your uncle got sick and you decided to take a year off school to go home and run the business for him . Monte Jr. is sick? But I saw him just last week. He looked okay. He looked normal . Sure, a little stressed-out and red-faced, but when is he not? If he’s sick, why didn’t he tell us? Is it so serious that he’s keeping it a secret? Is that the real reason he stepped away?
I begin to feel lightheaded, but that’s not even the half of it. Wilson left business school? I thought he was just here for the summer. That, I don’t know, he was taking online classes while running Monte’s. I had no idea he actually took a year off school to be here.
Holy. My brain short-circuits with information overload.
Anita opens the office door. “Hey,” she says, leaning against the wall. “Any luck?”
“Close the door,” I say.
She does. Then I tell her everything.
When I’m done, Anita’s eyes fill with tears. “Monte Jr. is sick?”
I nod. Watching her cry is bringing tears to my eyes, too. “I had no idea.”
“None of us did,” she says, her voice a whisper. “We need to handle this without involving him. If whatever he’s going through is serious enough for him to step down, we can’t risk dragging him back here.”
I nod, completely agreeing.
“What do we do now?” she asks.
“We need to find Wilson.”
“Easier said than done,” Anita says. “Wilson hasn’t made a single friendship with anyone who works here. No one knows how to contact him.”
I sigh, holding my head in my hands, my hair pooling on the top of the desk. “We don’t get paid enough for this,” I grumble.
“We don’t,” Anita agrees. “Actually—what are you doing here? You hate Wilson. You should be, like, celebrating that his life is falling apart.”
“I’m not a heartless monster,” I say, peeking out between my hands to glare at her.
Anita reaches across the desk. “Let me see the letter.” I hand it to her. She kicks her feet up on the desk and begins to read. “Maybe you missed something,” she says.
“Like what?”
“Like a secret code or invisible ink.”
I snort. “Sure, because that sounds like something a nineteen-year-old girl would do.”
I wince as Anita rips the envelope open and unfolds the paper. Well, delicacy be damned. “I once had an ex capitalize certain letters in the text she sent dumping me,” she says while she reads.
“What did the message spell out?” I ask.
“‘Fuck you’,” she says.
I choke back a laugh. “Fair enough.”
Anita reads the letter in record-breaking time, then tosses it onto the table. I quickly fold it back up and return it to the desk. For some reason, I feel this compelling urge to keep Wilson’s office as tidy as I know he likes it.
“You’re right,” Anita says. “Nothing in there but heartbreak. Kudos to whoever told her to break up with Wilson in a letter. I don’t know about you, but in-person breakups are extremely overrated. Like, just dump me over the phone so I don’t have to look at your face ever again, geez.”
I freeze mid-movement, zeroing in on what she said.
“Anita,” I whisper.
“What? What just happened? Why do you look like that?”
“What do you mean by ‘whoever told her to break up with Wilson in a letter’?” I ask.
“Uhm.” Anita grabs the letter, opening it again. “Right here, Kenzie wrote, I never meant to tell you this in a letter. I was told that writing it out might help process my emotions . It sounds like someone gave her advice to break up with him like that—Jackie, what is it? You’re scaring me.”
It can’t be possible.
There’s no way that Kenzie wrote into pleasebreakmyheart and asked me how to break up with Wilson. I would’ve recognized her name, her photo, her situation. Anything .
“Hello?” Anita presses, waving the letter in my face.
“Hold on.” I’m tapping through my phone, pulling up iDiary and scrolling through every message I’ve answered in the past weeks. There’s nearly a hundred of them. I skim the messages and the usernames, but nothing seems remotely familiar. Nothing seems like Kenzie...
Until it does.
There it is: last Tuesday, user mkz123, who wrote about how the future she planned with her boyfriend was uprooted when he decided to take a new job and move back home. And my response? To try writing out her feelings in a letter before talking to him.
Even the username mkz123 must be short-form for McKenzie, Kenzie’s full name.
But that’s pretty standard advice. It doesn’t necessarily mean...
Then I see it. An unread message waiting in my inbox from mkz123, thanking me for the suggestion to write out her feelings in a letter. You were right , the message reads. It made the breakup a lot easier.
I bang my head on the desk. This cannot be happening.
There’s pressure on my shoulder. I realize it’s Anita’s hand. She’s standing next to me. “Jackie,” she says carefully, “you’re scaring me.”
I ruined their relationship. I practically drew Kenzie the blueprint on how to break Wilson’s heart, and now Monte’s and all my coworkers are feeling the brunt of it. And I can’t even confide in Anita. She can’t know about this blog, especially now. No one can know about what I’ve done.
Unfolding my limbs, I sit up in Wilson’s chair, catching another whiff of his cologne. An unfortunate plan begins to form in my mind, like Tetris blocks falling into place.
I stand up. “I know what I have to do,” I say, already exhausted just thinking about it.
“What?” Anita asks.
I say five words I never thought would leave my mouth. “I’m going to find Wilson.”