Eye for an I

Chapter 1

one

“Sophie?”

Teeth gritted, I yank the phone from my ear and hesitate as my eyes ping-pong between the end call and speaker icons. I poke speaker, wishing it was his eyeball, and hope the added volume will help make sense of this bullshit.

“Sophie,” he repeats, placation tipping toward irritation, “you still there?”

The thought bubbles to the surface and exits on a breath, words locked deep inside a tired exhalation. “What the hell?” I sound pathetic. But seriously, what the hell?

He sighs. “We both knew this was coming.”

I bark out a laugh. “Knew what was coming? You playing hide the sausage with another wom—?”

He cuts me off. “No. This. The end.” The words are said dramatically. “Meeting someone else wasn’t planned, but the heart wants what the heart wants.”

“I think you mean the dick wants what the dick wants,” I mutter.

Ignoring the jab, he continues, “You and I, we want different things. My life, my career, is on a trajectory—”

Trajectory? Jesus Christ, is he reading this from his Notes app? It sounds scripted and rehearsed. I interrupt, because that’s how we argue; fully-formed sentences are a rarity. I like to skip ahead to the part where it’s over, and he likes to drag it out. “When are you picking up your stuff?”

He’s momentarily stunned into silence. I know how badly he wanted to romanticize his piss-poor choices, and now he’s at a loss, so he circles back to irritation. “Don’t be like this, Soph.”

My head begins shaking from side to side, and when the pressure-release valve is triggered a high-pitched sound erupts, that is, for lack of a better word, sweary sounding.

And then he does the unthinkable. “I wanted to talk about this like adults, but I guess that’s asking too much.”

I want to come back with something witty, but dammit if the gene pool didn’t drain the wit into my sister.

I don’t have the patience for his brand of confrontation; he’s a button-pusher.

Maybe this breakup is for the best, because we were doomed from the start.

“Pick up your shit in the next two days or, I swear to God,” I want to tell him I’ll burn it, “I’ll donate it. ” Way to sound tough, Sophie.

Another sigh.

My cue to hang up.

He beats me to it, because of course he does.

“In with the hell yeah, out with the hell no,” I whisper to the empty room.

Last year my employer promoted an online, guided meditation tutorial as part of a stress management initiative.

I didn’t find the suggested mantras like, Bliss flows through me, natural or relatable.

Bliss has never flowed through me, and it felt like lying.

So, I pivoted and used something that felt more authentic as my go-to calming method.

“In with the hell yeah, out with the hell no,” I repeat, but when the anger coils insistently in my belly with no sign of retreat, I lean into it, toss my cell on the kitchen counter, and grab an empty box from the recycle bin in the garage.

Followed by a feverish effort to gather his clothes from my closet, scoffing at the button-down shirt and pair of pressed pants still wrapped in dry cleaning plastic wrap, before relegating them to the purge pile.

He doesn’t officially live here, but it’s surprising how much he’s squirreled away throughout the house. The process continues over the next half hour: scornfully fill the box, dump it on the front lawn with a satisfied flourish, repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

By the time I’m done, the anger has burned off, replaced by an ego so battered it feels like that week I gracelessly attempted CrossFit.

The end of another relationship is as routine as morning coffee and as predictable as trash pickup Tuesdays.

I should be used to it by now. Of course, the end was coming.

It’s always coming. But like this? Maybe that’s why I hold a part of myself back in relationships, because when the end inevitably comes, I think it won’t hurt.

But being shit on always hurts.

My sister walks through the front door, trailed distantly by my nephew.

The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Lola’s mouth.

She’s not only on board with whatever fiasco I’m in the middle of, but she’s ready to jump in headlong, fists swinging.

She’s always been an act first, plan later sort of gal. The chaotic yin to my controlled yang.

There’s a rumbling of deep laughter as she gestures to the front yard with a jab of a thumb over her shoulder.

“Please tell me you were just waiting for me to get home so I can put the finishing touch on,” she turns to the large window and the remnants of my boyfriend strewn about on the sun-scorched lawn, throws her arms open wide, and motions wildly to encompass the scene, “this.” Her devious smile unfurls like a breeze-coaxed flag.

My relationship has obviously gone sideways; most siblings would comfort in a situation like this.

Not Lola. She knows rage provoked this out-of-character act from me, and she’s here for it.

Benji walks past his mom, hugs me like he does every time he comes home, and goes to the refrigerator to grab a blue Gatorade before asking in his steady, older-than-his-years voice, “So, do we get to burn Ken’s stuff, or what?

” Lola and Benji have always called my boyfriend Ken.

Even to his face. His name is Chance. My tribe is fierce.

I nod slowly. “In two days.” They know I don’t mean it.

Lola rubs her hands together anyway. “Let’s build a pyre out of Ken’s dress pants and make an effigy of him with his weird-ass wasabi pistachios, industrial-strength pomade, and coconut self-tanning lotion and light it up like Burning Man.”

Benji nods to the corner of the kitchen. “You forgot his Nespresso.”

I shake my head. “Consolation prize. I’ve grown attached.”

He holds up his fist. I bump it. “Good call.”

“Agreed, the Nespresso leaves over my dead body,” Lola chimes in as she drops her overburdened purse onto a barstool on the other side of the island and slides onto the one next to it.

“I want to hear all about what led to the demise of SophKen, I really do, but first things first.” She reaches into her back pocket, pulls something out, and slides it across the counter to me like she’s presenting me with the answer to all my problems. Or at least a temporary diversion from the upheaval.

Two concert tickets. It’s been years since I’ve seen a live show because tickets are expensive; I’m intrigued. Picking them up, I scan the details and scrunch up my nose. “Thicker Than Water? Never heard of them.”

She slaps her palms down on the battered butcher block, tips her head back, and huffs. Eyes closed, but still pointed toward the ceiling, she explains, “Who cares. It’s a night out with me. Your favorite sister.”

“My only sister,” I interject.

She drops her chin and bats her expertly applied false eyelashes, ignoring the jab. “We’ll get drunk and dance and think dreamy thoughts about the hot guys on stage.”

“Sounds good to me,” Benji says, while searching the snack drawer.

Lola and I both swivel to him.

He plucks a granola bar out of the box and then looks up at us when the silence stretches. He shrugs. “Minus the alcohol, obviously.”

We nod with motherly and auntie approval, and Lola reaches across the counter and high-fives the fourteen-year-old.

My eyes circle the room, thinking of all the things I could do tonight. Mainly wallowing in the breakup, resurrecting and overthinking every past life decision in vivid detail, and eating junk food.

“We’re going,” Lola states with finality. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight to mope. Or to regret the time you cut off your hair in eighth grade to look like Pink.”

“Rihanna,” I correct. “Damn you, you mind reader.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smirking in triumph.

“Have fun,” Benji calls as he walks down the hall to his bedroom.

“You too,” I call back in defeat.

Benji rotates swiftly through short-lived hobbies. Tonight, he’s online with a band he assembled a few weeks ago. They play something he calls post-bop jazz. He’s learning how to play the drums. What he lacks in raw talent, he makes up for in passion. And volume. It gets loud.

“Rock on!” Lola accompanies the declaration with the hand gesture, because she’s extra like that.

He shakes his head, embarrassed for her, and shuts the door behind him.

With Benji out of earshot, Lola turns to me and asks, “Do you want to talk about it? I have a sharpened butcher knife hidden under my mattress. I could dismember Ken, discreetly of course, and make him disappear.” She knows I like to swim around in my thoughts. She’s offering me a buoy.

“I appreciate the grisly offer—”

“Loving,” Lola corrects.

“Loving offer,” I amend. “But there’s not much to say—he left me for someone else. I didn’t see it coming.”

“That fucker,” Lola hisses, outraged on my behalf.

I grab the dish towel from the sink and scrub at a glob of peanut butter on the counter leftover from my rushed lunch. “Yup. Fucker.”

“Who is she?” She looks as stunned as I feel.

I shrug. “He said she works at a new wellness studio downtown. He sells them water. There was a connection.” I wrap the word in air quotes. “I don’t remember much after that. I kinda tuned out.”

Chance reps ‘boutique’ water for his best friend’s start-up. It’s filtered city tap water perked up with minimal fruity flavoring and an unjustified high price tag. At least the label’s cute.

“That fucker,” she repeats. “We’re definitely lighting his shit up.”

“Or we could eat ice cream and binge season two of Fleabag again.” Phoebe Waller-Bridge makes everything better.

Lola shakes her head. “Tempting, season two is my favorite. You know I’m all about the hot priest, but we’re going out. We’re gonna purge Ken from your system like a piece of undercooked chicken.”

I cringe. “Gross.”

She shrugs in agreement.

I look down at my clothes. I work from home and never made it out of the cut-off sweats and tank top I slept in last night. “I suppose I should change?”

“Quality rebound sex is a guaranteed impossibility in jammies. Go shower and put on something that makes you feel like the goddess you are. What about that slinky, black, backless halter top you never wear? Put that on. It’s time to party, bitch.

” Casual sex isn’t really my thing, and she knows it, but there’s no one else who’s better at reminding me of my worth than my sister.

This might be the only time our roles are reversed, and she mother-hens me when I need to be pushed outside of my comfort zone.

I walk to the front window and, hands on hips, survey my temper tantrum.

“You’re gonna bring it back in, aren’t you?” Lola asks like she knew this was coming. Because she did.

I pause, huff loudly, and then nod slowly.

“I’ll get some boxes from the garage and help you.”

All you need in life is someone who gets you.

And even when they don’t agree with you, they help you anyway.