How long was it for Romeo and Juliet? Longer than a week, right?
I mean, yes, I’d loved Dawson forever. I’m pretty sure I loved him in seventh grade when I spotted him across our middle school gym for the first time, but I’m referring to the actual love-making, gaga eyes, I-love-you kisses when we’d part for the day. Only a week? Why did it feel so much longer than that?
Why did it feel like I’d been with him for my entire life? Like my soul had always been tethered to his. I wasn’t sure I believed in reincarnation but now I was second-guessing myself.
Maybe Dawson and I had always been together, in other lives, somehow finding each other again in the next life.
I hoped past me didn’t have a heartbreak that hurt this bad.
Because it sucked.
I’d been ignoring all texts and phone calls because I didn’t even want to speak.
Since I’d decided to leave Becca’s, through her protests, she’d been over to check on me a couple times. I called off work, which I shouldn’t have, but I did. I told myself I’d give myself the weekend to get my shit together and then pull on my big girl panties (the ones with the tacos on them, because… #tacos) and deal with the issue head-on.
How was I going to do that? I had no idea, but I was coming to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to let a grown-ass woman, who wore her hair too tight and who held grudges on dead people, dictate my life.
I just had to figure out what to do fi
rst.
I was strong.
I was intelligent.
I was no longer a pushover. She may have gotten Breanna to bully me when I was younger, but I’d been through way too much in my life to be pushed around again. I was not that same nerdy, awkward fifteen-year-old.
Fuck Mrs. Connors.
Even her name pissed me off.
Which was good. Anger was like putting gasoline on the fire. It would fire me up to the point that I would un-ball all the paper wads that I’d thrown on the floor, trying to write out a plan for “Operation Take Back Dawson & Get. Mrs. Connors Fired”.
I lay back on my bed with a whoosh and focused on my laptop sprawled open on the other pillow.
“WWOBD?” I said aloud.
What would Oliva Benson do? I’d been watching episodes of Law and Order SVU all day, trying to figure out a way to turn into a detective to get myself out of this ridiculous mess. I just needed some time. That’s what I told Dawson, and I hoped when this was all over, he’d understand why I’d said that.
It wasn’t because I didn’t love him.
“Okay, Detective Benson, what the hell would you do if you were me?” I said, again, to no one. I drummed my fingers on my chin and ran my other hand through my ratty hair. I looked a hot mess but I didn’t have time for a shower! Who had time for a shower when they were trying to come up with a plan to fix their life?
Not me.
My eyes flashed to the screen: Oliva and Ice-T (aka Fin) were crouching over a screen, replaying some footage from a kidnapping. Then I gasped.
“CAMERAS!!!!” I hopped off my bed in a rush, getting tangled in my messy covers, landing with a thump on top of the several torn notebook papers.
The bank had cameras. Like, lots of them. Duh! And I would almost bet my left arm that they had audio. If a robber came in to pull a bank job, the police would likely want footage with audio. Bank security systems were top notch – or at least, I hoped. They should be if they aren’t.
I pulled on my jacket, adjusting my leggings so they were actually straight to my body and not twisted like I’d slept in them all night (which I had) and darted out the door, snagging nothing but my keys and my phone.
The sun was bright over my head, causing me to squint as I reached my car. Its glare on the hood damn near had me wrecking as my tires spun out from underneath my Camry.
It took less than ten minutes to get to the bank. I stole a glance at myself in the mirror, which was scary. But that was good. I’d called in sick this morning and I definitely looked the part, so kudos to me for planning ahead.
I threw my car in park, not even bothering to grab my usual parking spot and hopped out of the car, hoping with all my might that my plan would work.