Someone holds the door for me when I get there, and I say, “Thank you,” as I walk through.

Thank you. I laugh. Thank you is an appropriate response when someone holds the door. It’s not an appropriate goodbye during a breakup. What an idiot.

I use the crosswalk to cross the four lanes of traffic that circle Logan Square. It’s a circle really. A big circular pie of green space in downtown Philadelphia separated by slices of sidewalk leading to a fountain in the middle. It’s empty now, drained for winter. Patches of half-melted ice and small islands of snow dot the fountain’s surface.

I sit on the edge then swing my legs over, stepping into the fountain, because why not? How many chances do you get to walk around a dry fountain? I stuff my hands in my pockets and walk to the center, passing a stone frog the size of a small child, its mouth gaping, ready to erupt a stream of water as soon as the weather permits. I reach the fountain a few steps later, walking around it, getting an up-close view of the three statues. There’s a girl with a swan on her head. A woman with a swan on her head. And a reclining man reaching for a bow or sword behind his back. There’s a large fish on his head. I decide they make as much sense as Sawyer does and take a seat next to sword guy.

Pulling my knees up to my chest, I dig in my bag for my wallet then dump all the change I can find into my hand.

I hope you get diarrhea, Sawyer, is my first wish as I hurl a dime across the empty fountain. I hope you’re plagued with a shoddy internet connection. That wish gets a quarter. I hope your next girlfriend snores. I hope you get a flat tire on the turnpike. Wait, that one is kind of dangerous. Well, fuck him. I lob a penny into the air, watching it hit the cement and roll. I hope your flight is delayed. Every flight. I hope your cell battery is low and the power goes out. I hope…

God, I suck at this.

I hope one day you realize what a huge mistake you just made and you never get over me.

I propel the remaining change in my hand across the fountain with the force of a professional pitcher. The coins fly through the air before raining down on the cement. All I hear is the white noise in my ears.

My mind spins but I feel nothing. Empty. I feel empty. I wrap my arms around my bent knees and stare at Sawyer’s building until my butt is numb and my nose is running. Then I get up and walk to the opposite side of the fountain from where I got in, walking towards 20th Street where I can grab a cab back to school.

Goodbye, Sawyer.

“So.” Chloe’s back from the showers down the hall and running a comb through her hair.

“So,” I repeat back, not looking at her. I’m busy.

“So are you going to, I don’t know, maybe take a shower today?” she prods.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you smell, Everly. That’s why.”

I pull a bottle of room spray out from my desk drawer without looking at her and spray it over my head, the mist landing in my hair and on my hands. I don’t care. I keep my eyes on my laptop, my finger scrolling until I find something I like. My full attention is needed on this project.

“Problem solved,” I tell her.

“Um, no. No, it’s really not.” Chloe tidies up her side of the room and stuffs her laptop in her bag, getting ready to head out for the day.

“I’ll shower tomorrow. I’m busy.”

“You said that yesterday. What are you working on?”

“Pinterest.”

“That’s helping how?”

“It’s very therapeutic.”

She walks behind my chair and peers at my laptop. “Sawyer Camden is a dick,” she reads out loud, viewing the board of pictures I’ve created about crappy ex-boyfriends. She nudges my hand out of the way and scrolls through for a minute. “Yeah, no.” She snaps the laptop lid closed. “This isn’t helping.”