Page 26 of Breaking Away

26

KAVI

The next few days, back home in Seattle, I’m on my laptop. All five hundred photos have been edited and sent to Anna for her anniversary party. My finger refreshes the screen for the fifth time. There’s been no response.

My shoulders droop.

She won’t do anything with them. There was that other photographer there. With his work, there’s no need to look at anything I’ve sent her. At least I got paid as a favor to my mom.

Putting my laptop away, I check my phone. No missed calls from my parents or Tyler. Ever since I bailed on the Big Gesture Tyler had planned, they’ve switched tactics. They are icing me out.

My chin quivers. I sprawl on the sofa, ignoring the heaviness in my belly. I don’t know what to do. About them, but also with my time. Before this breakup, my days were full, spent assisting my dad and Tyler. Now, I’m a fish dangling on a hook, torn asunder from the busyness of the sea. Everyone expects me to get tired, go limp, and give in.

Turning my face, I scream into a pillow.

All I want to do is message Tyler, tell him we’re over because I’ve been riding dick after dick, like so many dicks I’ve lost count of them, and that I’m so full of cum that I’m surely pregnant by now. Or…

I could post a photo I took of Lokhov playing. I could caption it provocatively, telling everyone I was there, watching him. Nothing like fawning over a sworn rival’s game to deliver a succinct fuck-you message.

Right now, they assume I stayed back in Vancouver to weep and journal.

That’s not what happened! My mind goes to dazzling lights, waltzing, and riding a thigh?—

Heat floods my body as if I’ve plunged head-first into a whirlpool. Miniature pulsing sensations ripple through me. I’ve tried to be good, to not remember the club, but that locked door cracks open. Images flood back. The demanding grip on my hips, the taunting of his low voice, and his mocking cajolement.

Use me.

What a lazy, cocky dare. As if none of it matters to him, but I could go on and touch him if I cared to. The audacity of his erection for being so overlarge, prodding, and there.

Don’t look?

Well, don’t poke me in the eye with it!

But also the embarrassment of his apology afterward that we had taken it too far. How we weren’t acting smart, and how he didn’t want to be my friend after I asked him to be in a moment of silly weakness.

My toes curl.

No matter how much I tell myself it didn’t matter, that it meant nothing, my skin gets so sensitive every time I remember it all. The good. Bad. The possessed. My clothes chafe. I want to take them off just to breathe.

But I don’t.

I grab my laptop again and search for photography gigs. A sweet sixteen party comes up. The pay works out to be… right at minimum wage. Goodie. I message them my contact information.

Below that gig is another one. My fingers squeeze together until they cramp.

Boudoir photoshoot.

A memory resurfaces of me talking to Tyler.

“What do you think of me working as a boudoir photographer?” I whisper to him, lying in bed.

“No.”

“But I could do it for people of all different body shapes and sizes…”

“No, you aren’t classless,” he decides.

Back in the present, I absently highlight the gig a few times before shutting my screen off. Tyler is right. It’s not worth the judgment. Nobody in my life, especially my parents, would approve. It would make everything worse.

Getting up, I stretch around my apartment. An attempt at yoga is made.

Mid-downward dog, my phone rings again.

Forcing myself to look, I see it’s my landlord calling.

Odd. He never reaches out.

I’m homeless.

Technically, I will be in a week. My landlord is selling the unit and I have two weeks to leave. And since a friend of Tyler’s owns this place, I couldn’t push back. We never signed a proper lease.

My lungs stop working all of a sudden.

He wouldn’t…

That would be going too far…

This can’t be Tyler arranging this. What would he gain from kicking me out of this place? I mean with two weeks notice, I might need to move in with my parents where?—

They lecture me about giving Tyler another chance?

I’m shaking so hard I’m the last spin of a dryer cycle. Why does my gut think this eviction is happening because of Tyler?

In my head, I write him a text.

HEY. IT’S ME. I’VE NOT ANSWERED YOUR CALLS BECAUSE I’VE BEEN BUSY. GETTING BUKKAKED BY SO MANY MEN IT LOOKS LIKE I’VE GOT A HALLOWEEN MASK ON GOING AS SOME SORT OF SCARY SLUG CREATURE. IF YOU DID WHAT I THINK YOU DID, YOU ARE BEING PETTY. MEAN. WHY ARE YOU ACTING LIKE THIS? I FEEL LIKE I DON’T KNOW YOU.

I don’t send anything, but get to work trying to find another place to live.

After a few days of searching, I’m slumped over on my couch. There are no rentals in my price range. Through Tyler’s connection, my rent here was so subsidized, but checking my current bank account?—

I drop my face into my hands.

I can’t afford to pay more.

Kavi Basra… has accomplished nothing for herself.

I didn’t go to college, even though I’ve thought about it often. See, after Tyler got drafted to the league, it felt like my responsibility to help him transition into this big career, and then it was about supporting his rise to becoming captain. And when my dad started working for the Blades, he was giving me tasks to do and paying me for them. I kept helping.

Between all that, whenever I had spare time, I watched photography tutorials, read up on composition, and practiced editing. Just to be an informed hobbyist, I kept telling everyone. Obviously taking photos of sweet sixteen parties wouldn’t pay all my bills. Not when half the time these gigs offer exposure instead of real money.

Now here I am.

My account balance is depressing.

Not knowing what else to do, I call my landlord again. I tell him it’s not fair to kick me out so suddenly. He tells me there’s no other option. We didn’t sign any paperwork. I have to move out.

My eyes well up.

Going back to that photography website, I book as many jobs as I can get. And I agree to do the sweet sixteen one for less than minimum wage plus exposure.

What else can I do? This time, I search the rental market for roommates. There are options, but having no regular income makes my anxiety roil.

I need a job with a dependable paycheck. Unfortunately, my resume is pathetic. Empty.

All I want to do is sleep, so I go to bed. It’s past midnight, anyway.

My eyes close, then snap back open. I can’t shut my brain off, and I can’t let go of the laptop or the phone lying next to me as if there’s an answer in there somewhere.

I want to scream. Yell. Cry. Message my mom.

Have you talked to Tyler? Do you know if he’s behind me getting kicked out?

Then I remember what she said.

Men make stupid mistakes all the time.

That line makes me want to get up and run, and not look back. Instead, I pull up tonight’s hockey highlights on my phone.

Not for the Seattle Blades.

For the Vancouver Wings.