Chapter One Julia #3
Now I had regrets, though, as everything back in Springfield seemed to be moving on like I’d never been there.
I closed my apps—what’s the point—but when I went to put my phone back in my purse, I saw it was unzipped.
And my wallet was gone.
“Oh my God,” I said as I opened the tiny bag and shifted things around, as if that’d make any difference. It was my super-small crossbody bag, and my wallet usually took up all the space inside.
It was clearly missing.
“What’s wrong?” Liam asked through a mouth full of burrito, still scrolling on his phone.
“My wallet’s gone,” I said, panic rising inside me.
No, no, no—it can’t be gone, I thought, my stomach clenching at the thought of never seeing it again.
“You sure?” he asked, looking over at me.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Maybe it’s in the van.”
“No, I used it to pay for the bread and burritos,” I said, panic swirling through me. “I must’ve dropped—”
“Dad told you about the pickpockets, Jules,” Liam said, looking unconcerned. “You’re in a big city now and have to lock that shit down.”
“Oh, this is helpful,” I snapped.
“Relax,” he said, setting down his burrito and dusting off his hands. “You’re not going to be driving here, so the license is no loss, and good ol’ Bernard will have a replacement debit card in hand within the hour. Nothing to get keyed up about.”
Keyed up. That was how my family referred to my anxiety. I got keyed up about little things, and they just needed to say “calm down” and that would instantly relax me.
Not.
And what he said might’ve been correct, but he had no idea what that wallet meant.
“It might’ve fallen out of my bag after we got the burritos,” I said. “I probably forgot to zip it and it fell out. I’ll be right back.”
He made a noise that told me he thought I was delusional as I got off the bench, but I didn’t care. I needed to find that wallet, dammit. I started retracing my steps, staring down at the pavement and weaving in and out of clumps of pedestrians as I walked back toward where we’d been, freaking out.
Because it wasn’t just a wallet.
Don’t cry, I told myself as my throat got tight. This is not a big deal, I thought as I dodged everyone else walking down the sidewalk while keeping my eyes glued to the ground.
You needed to get rid of that wallet anyway, you dumbass.
Ever since the breakup, whenever I pulled it out of my purse, I knew I needed to hide it away. I needed to bury it in my box of Will memorabilia—which was a pretty big box, by the way.
But for some reason, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to do that yet.
And it was ridiculous. Silly, stupid, and sentimental.
Last summer, Will lost his wallet and had to get everything replaced. New license, new debit card, new student ID; he had to get all of it redone. He bought a new wallet and filled it with the replacements, including the replacement copy of his favorite photo of me that he always kept in there.
The photo I’d teased him about.
Who keeps a photo of their girlfriend in their wallet anymore, boomer?
And God, I’d melted at the way he smiled at me when he said:
I do, because I like seeing your face every time I open it.
So when his dad finally found his lost wallet in one of the fields when he was cutting corn in August (it’d fallen out when they were spring planting, apparently), I kept it. Will had everything he needed in his new one, so I ditched my pastel wristlet and claimed his brown leather bifold instead.
But now it was gone.
It was gone, just like Will.
Lost somewhere in New York City.
God, just like me.
Stop overthinking this, I scolded myself as I approached Chipotle.
It’s fine, I told myself as the guy at the counter dismissively reported that no one had turned in any wallets while also looking at me like I was an idiotic tourist.
But it didn’t feel fine as I walked out of the building.
It felt like a bad omen, like the this is fine meme with the dog in the burning building.
And I wanted to rage.
I wanted to shout and maybe kick something over, because that wallet being taken from me today felt like the icing on the Will and Hannah cake, like the universe was doing a ball-spike on my face as if to remind me things were never going to be the same again.
And as I clenched my fists and stood there on the sidewalk, seething at the injustice, I saw it.
I saw him.
There was a guy in glasses and a hoodie, standing in front of the bakery on the other side of the street, and he was holding the wallet.
Oh my God.
Not only was he holding it, but it was open—he was going through its contents, that asshole—and he had a picture in his hand.
It was the stupid picture of me, laughing and surrounded by dogs, and it was in this stranger’s hand.
And the guy was smirking underneath his backward Mets baseball cap like he found the picture hilarious. A shitty little know-it-all half smile was on his face as he looked down at it, probably the grin he grinned every time he picked an unsuspecting pocket, and that was the final straw.
I was taking back the wallet, dammit.
Even if it meant killing that guy with my bare hands.