“She took Rusty’s toy.”
My best friend, Habiba, gasps, her expression as offended as if someone tookherfavourite toy, which these days is her Lola croc purse. Biba likes her bags. “The hedgehog?” she demands, swelling to her full height of five feet ten inches. “The toyIgave Rusty?”
I straddle my motorcycle parked at the edge of the park across from Liv’s building, one of those huge, Victorian-style three-story homes broken up into apartments. I loved Liv’s place, loved waking up in her comfy bed, in her huge bedroom with the blackout curtains keeping out the bright sunlight.
Now the sunlight has gone, just like my love for her. Indifference fills up the space where it used to be, along with a healthy dose of mad.
I used to love Liv. Olivia Coleman—not the British actress, but the Toronto financial analyst. She of the type A, tightly wound personality who commanded a conference room of stockbrokers with a lift of her arched eyebrow; my first female love.
I’m going back to men. Not that I’ve had much success with them either.
Biba and I skulk at the opening of the park; the very same park where Liv and I would take Rusty for walks, and where she did her best to teach me small PDAs were acceptable and a good way to start. Holding hands with either man or woman was a brand-new experience for me, just like the pink satin sheets Liv favoured.
It’s been six weeks since Liv ended things, and I amfine. I really am. I look at our eighteen-month relationship as a learning experience, happy that we never made the move to cohabit, and resigned that I attract the worst kinds of people—male and female both.
Not that she’s terrible, but I have no qualms about casing Liv’s building before attempting the rescue of my dog’s favourite toy.
“The very same. She told me I left nothing in the condo, that she checkedfourtimes. I don’t know where she checked—maybe up her ass—because her stupid new girlfriend posted a picture, and the hedgehog isright there!”
“Rachel.” Biba’s dark eyebrows pinch together in a frown. “You said you weren’t checking her Instagram.”
Oops. “But I found Rusty’sfavourite toy!”
“You’re stalking your ex. Babe, it’s been six weeks.”
“Technically, I wasn’t stalkingher,” I hedge.
Habiba huffs her disappointment. “We talked about this. No looking at Liv. No looking at Liv’s new girlfriend, however much we want to hate her.”
“She has a dog,” I wheedle. “Liv replaced Rusty with some Shihpoo fluffball.” This buys me some time because Habiba loves Rusty, my boxador/terrier mutt—a ‘real’ dog— almost as much as I do.
“Okay,” Biba decides. “Let’s get it back.”
The darkness hides my grin. It’s evidence of how much Biba loves me that she’s out standing at the edge of a park where drug dealers and pervy men in raincoats are known to congregate. My friend is a brilliant mathematician and would rather be in her quiet apartment working out a seven-step word problem or calculating the gross national income of seventeen third-world countries, or whatever really smart people like to do, rather than all the wacky things I force her to help me with.
Breaking into my ex-girlfriend’s place to steal back a dog toy isn’t even the worst of them.
I can’t really say that I’m reallybreaking in, because like Liv kept the toy, I never gave back her key. We’re checking out the place to make sure nosy neighbour Donna isn’t there, because she would totally rat me out.
“What’s the plan?” Biba asks as I stow my helmet in her car. One thing I’ve never gotten her to do is ride with me, but I keep trying.
“We go in, all sneaky like, hit the apartment, grab hedgehog and vamoose! Easy peasy.” I can’t stop smiling, which contradicts my pissed-off-ness, but this is exciting. Thanks to Liv’s structured life and attempts to get me to follow her routine, excitement such as this has been sorely lacking for a while.
“And she hasn’t changed the lock?” We trot across the street, staying clear of streetlights.
The thought never occurred to me. “Why would she do that?”
“Because she broke up with you and you still have a key. I’ve been your friend since we were twelve, Rach, and you’re never getting a key to my place.”
“Ah, but maybe I don’t need a key to get into your place.” I grin at Biba’s chagrin. One of those bad people I’ve had a habit of attracting was a small-time thief who taught me the ins and outs of breaking in to a house. Also hotwiring a car. I’d been sixteen, bored, and it seemed like a good thing to learn at the time.
And both skills came in handy one summer at a friend’s cottage when the friend jumped into the lake on arrival with his keys in his pocket. While it’s obviously easier to start a car with a key, I like to think I can still rise to the challenge if need be.
The door to Liv’s building is unlocked and unmanned and we stroll right in. One thing I’ve learned in life is to look like you know what you’re doing, even if you don’t. And unfortunately, right now, our all-black outfits make us look like we’re about to break into an apartment. While I look like a jogging ninja, Biba is amazing enough to walk into any bar and have a line of drinks ready and waiting from smitten guys. Her hair alone deserves its own Instagram page.
“Third floor,” I remind her as we start up the stairs.
“I’ve been here before.”
