I’mon edge for the next few hours, so much so, that I can’t quite focus on my work. When Brian and the boys get home, I bounce off my office chair to go give the boys a hug.
My heart is pounding when I hug Brian. There are about a million questions I want to ask, but I’m speechless.
“How was your day?” he asks with a peck on my cheek.
I eye his worn leather suitcase. I know it holds his laptop, phone, wallet, keys and student papers and such. “Uh… good.”
He eyes me with a look of concern, but I’m determined to act normal. “So… how about chicken parmesan for dinner tonight? I made the bread you like.” Thankfully, I’ve already bought all the ingredients for dinner, and the bread is already being made in my trusty breadmaker.
“Sounds great,” he says, leaving his briefcase by the door. “Tristan and I are going to shoot some hoops, before I get to my grading.”
“Oh, okay.” They often do this when the weather allows. There’s a basketball court nearby. Trevor couldn’t be bothered — he’d rather read, but Tristan loves it. As soon as Brian dashes off to go change, my pulse quickens as I dive right into his briefcase.
My fingers shake as I tap his password on his phone. I know his password and he knows mine. I quickly check his recent texts and activity. My heartbeat is relentless as I scroll through a few of the messages, feeling extremely guilty. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. There’s not much actually. Brian is not a big texter. I quickly slip his cell back in his briefcase. I’m acting crazy.
I know this, yet, I can’t help myself. As soon as he and Tristan are out of the house, I go back to the briefcase. Thankfully, he never brings his phone when they go to the court. I resume my investigation, moving on to his Messenger app because I know he spends a lot of time on Facebook. There’s nothing out of the ordinary there either. I’m now hidden in the powder room with the door locked, like the crazed lunatic that I am.
I’m getting frustrated now. I browse through his apps — the usual basic ones. No Twitter. No WhatsApp. But I do notice Instagram. I click on it — there are no posts. He has just a few followers. He follows about twenty handles, mostly music and car related. I check his messages — nothing. I check his search history. A few random handles — no Ava, no girls.
Next I check Facebook. Facebook was how Claudia found out her boyfriend was cheating on her, and I know Brian is a user. I browse through his list of friends — nothing out of the ordinary… no Ava.
I shake my head. I’m being crazy. I suck in a long breath.Relabel. Reattribute, Refocus and Revalue.Dr. Russell’s words play over and over in my head. I exit the powder room, and tuck the phone back in Brian’s briefcase. But when I spot the student papers, my pulse quickens and curiosity gets the best of me.
This time I take the whole briefcase with me to the powder room. I lock the door and flip the toilet cover down. I sit on the toilet and pull out the student papers. I flip through them and study all the names. Messy scribblings in pencil. No Ava. Again, nothing suspicious.
I reach for his laptop and make a promise to myself:Quickly check the laptop, and then never think about this again.I fire it up. I type in the password. Brian has a horrible memory and I know for a fact that his passwords are alltrevortristanwith the current year added.
I’m in, and my breathing is suddenly shallow. I suck in a long breath to calm myself. I’m checking one thing only, and then I’m done. Browser history. Unlike me, I know Brian is not very technologically inclined. He teaches English and philosophy. He’s old-school. He still reads theChicago Tribune —he wouldn’t dream of getting his news on the Internet. He still listens to his old iPod Nano with wired headphones. He reads paperbacks, and refuses to get a Kindle despite me repeatedly trying to convince him otherwise. I tease him mercifully about it. I know he wouldn’t think about erasing his history.
When I initially click on his Safari history, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. It seems he’s checked out a music store, tendinitis on WebMd, a weather site, a sports site, his school’s website portal, and the restaurant we went to last week. Nothing suspicious.
But when I click onShow all history, a long list pops up. The nameAva Hallis right there, in front of my eyes. I feel faint, and my lunch is threatening to come back up. In the flash of a second, I click on her name. I’m instantly brought to a Facebook post. A photo of her holding a cat. The caption reads:Just hanging with my BFF.
My heart dips into my stomach. It’s her. It’s definitely her. And her name is all over his browser history. I fall into sobs, and click on her name, at the top of the post.
I land on her page. My eyes are greedy, my fingers are restless, and my heart is breaking. Her profile photo is a close-up of her smiling, a closed mouthed grin. There’s something innocent and sweet about her. She reminds me of myself at that age. And I wonder if that’s where the attraction stems from. Innocence… sweetness. Life hasn’t had a chance to harden her, to jade her, to turn her into a cynic. Like me.
Life is beautiful for her. How could it not be… she’s still discovering it. I travel down her feed, my heart pumping wildly, my head shouting quietly, without a sound,You shouldn’t be doing this, Mischa.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. I have an uncontrollable desire to know everything. And more than that, I have therightto know.
As I browse down her feed, I study her photos — there’s something sorrowful about the girl. Perhaps she’s searching for answers, trying to figure out who she is, like most girls her age.
I hear the front door, followed by Tristan’s laughter. My heart pounds against my ribcage, threatening to steal my breath away. How could they be back already? I check my watch. It’s much later than I anticipated. I’ve been so consumed with Ava, I didn’t even see the time go by. I’m late. Supper will be late. I hurriedly close Facebook, and slap the laptop shut.
Now I need to figure out how to exit the powder room without Brian spotting me with his laptop. I press my ear against the door and listen carefully. I hear them talking. Tristan is messing with his dad again, calling him old. In other circumstances, I’d smile.
I’m almost positive that they’re in the kitchen. I quietly unlock the door and turn the handle. I slowly venture out, making sure no one is around. When I see that the coast is clear, I bounce over to the entryway on my tiptoes. I crouch down and quickly stuff the laptop back in Brian’s briefcase.
“There you are,” Brian cheers, a hint of confusion laces his words. “What are you doing in my briefcase?”
A wave of nausea hits me. I want to scream,I know all about Ava!But of course, I don’t because I’m the queen at avoiding confrontation. It was discussed at length in my therapy sessions when I was younger. My therapist believed it was one of the reasons I was bullied. That and the fact that I was a weirdo.
“Uh…” I mumble, at a complete loss for words. “I just wanted to borrow your laptop. Mine’s dead. I just want to Google a recipe.”
Quick thinking on my part.
He raises a brow, suspicious. “Why don’t you just use your phone?”
