Keep telling yourself you’re playing the Good Samaritan.
Leaning against the produce display, I do a quick analysis. The odds of her finding it at the Help Desk aren’t great. Maybe fifty-fifty. Some bagger boy will probably see the lock screen and take it to the bathroom and jerk off. The odds of that are phenomenal. The odds of me breaking the passcode aren’t great either, but if possible, would greatly increase her chances of getting it back.
And the chance for me to see those eyes in person.
I type in 0000.
“Try again” flashes on the screen.
1234.
“Try again.”
Steering the cart with my elbows towards the customer service desk, I run through possible passwords before I commit to my final try. I have one more chance before it locks me out for good and I have no choice but to turn it over to Bagger Boy and his bathroom break.
I go for 1111, another overused password.
It makes a clicking sound and the lock screen opens. The phone toggles in my hands, my jaw dropping in disbelief. It worked. The home screen is filled with apps over shiny gold wallpaper, waiting to be explored.
Should I or shouldn’t I?
My thumb glances over the photo album and I see the first photo.
I definitely should.
Brynne
The oversized and absurdly overpriced cream-colored sofa cushions my landing. I flop, face first, onto the pillows and let myself sink into the down stuffing.
“It’ll turn up,” my best friend, Presley Bradshaw, says from the other side the room. “It’s probably here and we’ve just overlooked it.”
“We’ve looked everywhere.” My voice is muffled and I’m sure Pres can’t hear me, but I’m too despondent to care.
Mementos of my life, especially my life before everything became discombobulated, is on that device. Pictures from beach bonfires with Presley and our little group of friends. Texts from my brother before he left the country for work. My music, notes, my entire life is recorded on that stupid. Little. Phone.
I might just lie here until I die.
“Brynne. Earth to Brynne.”
Groaning, I summon the energy to roll onto my side. Presley is watching me with a quirked and perfectly arched brow.
“What?” I mutter.
“We’ll find it. If not, we’ll just go get you another one.”
“I don’t want to just go get another one. I want mine.”
“What does it matter? It’s a phone, Brynnie. We’ll just get you a better one! I’ll get you one like mine and we’ll pretend it’s a birthday present.”
“It’s not that. I didn’t have my stuff backed up.”
We exchange a glance and I watch the realization hit her. Her face falls.
“Yeah,” I say, sitting up and pulling a pillow on my lap. I need it to warm my soul and bring me some comfort. But if there’s anything I know about finding comfort, it’s that a pillow isn’t going to give it to me. If it was that easy, these last few months wouldn’t have been so difficult to transverse.
Presley sits beside me. “Do you have any idea where you left it? Think back. Where was the last place you had it?”
The last place I remember having it was while I was talking to my mother. She was giving me the latest on Brady, which means she had no new information. Because my brother has been gone for four months now and there hasn’t been any break in weeks. They say when dealing with terrorists, silence is better than threats, but I’m not sure. Maybe silence means there’s nothing left to discuss, but I don’t tell my mother that. Not just because she couldn’t handle the idea, but because I can’t fathom saying it aloud. The thought alone makes me want to die.
“At the coffee shop. I stuck it in my pocket while I paid for my latte,” I say. “That’s the last place I know I had it for sure.”
“Don’t tell me the hottie with the Mohawk was working and you got sidetracked?”
“Nooooo,” I draw out, but it’s kind of true. Or a lot true. But it’s not there because I went back and checked . . . and managed to snag Mohawk’s number, but I’m not telling her that right now. She’ll end up getting all wired and start planning our wedding, and I don’t need that. I need my damn phone.
Presley rolls her eyes, knowing I’m lying, and pulls her hair into a wild knot at the top of her head. “We’ll discuss Mohawk later and I’ll find out why your face did that,” she says, waggling a finger in my direction. “For now, go through your brain. What happened after you got coffee?”
“Well, I swung by the post office and then went to Angel’s Market. I stopped for gas and then came home.”
“Did you call all of those places? Maybe some do-gooder found it and turned it in.”
“I called from your phone while you were in the shower. No one has seen it,” I sigh. “I’m screwed.”
My friend flashes me a sad smile. Her mouth opens and closes a few times. Although I don’t want to hear whatever she has to say, I know I will sooner or later, so we might as well get it over with.
“What?” I ask.
“Don’t let this do that to you.”