By Tonja Matney Reynolds

Bridgette’s coworkers said her boyfriend Josh was a man-baby, but that’s what she loved about him. He was adorable with his unkempt hair and Pokémon trainer T-shirts. He was thoughtful, too, always bringing her a box of leftover tacos after working the night shift at Taco Bell.

From the start, Josh had been easy to talk to. He never challenged her like other people did, and it wasn’t long before Josh moved out of his mother’s house and into Bridgette’s one-bedroom apartment. He didn’t know how to do laundry and couldn’t cook anything more complicated than microwave popcorn. That didn’t bother Bridgette. She loved taking care of him the way she would have loved taking in a stray Pomeranian with a gimpy leg if she weren’t severely allergic to dogs.

When Josh spilled red Slushie on her carpet, Bridgette didn’t get angry. Sure, it would stain, but accidents happen. She sopped it up for him without a word so he didn’t have to pause his game of Minecraft. He didn’t have to thank her. She knew he needed her.

In the months before Josh’s birthday, Bridgette worked extra hours at the nursing home, wiping butts and changing bedsheets. She set aside a little bit of each paycheck to buy GameStop gift cards until she had enough for the virtual reality headset he’d been wanting.

The night before his birthday, she came home with a pile of black cards tied together with a big red bow.

Josh was gone. So was his PlayStation. He only left behind his broken Xbox, dozens of games that went with it, a drawer full of taco sauce, and that red stain. A note was tacked onto the TV: I need a woman that makes me her priority. Not work.

Bridgette knew her coworkers would tell her not to do it, but she texted him. She said she was working for him, not for herself. When he didn’t text back, she called him. His mother answered. She threatened to block Bridgette’s number if she ever called again.

Despite his mom’s words, Bridgette waited for Josh to come home. She cried at first. Then she told herself he was like a lost dog. He’d find his way home.

When days turned to weeks and weeks made a month, she threw a kitchen rug over the Slushie stain and dried her tears. She put on her prettiest low-cut blouse and a pair of too-tight jeans and drove to GameStop.

The boy working the counter looked up from her chest to her eyes just long enough to say there wasn’t any way to return the cards. He suggested buying herself a pre-owned Nintendo system—they had a deal today—and Zelda. “Girls like it.”

“I don’t have time for games.”

“No woman does,” a woman in line behind her said. Her arms were full of boxes, including the VR system Josh had wanted.

Bridgette moved aside, and the woman put the boxes on the counter. She was gorgeous, with perfect nails, expensive clothes, and four well-manicured children.

“I don’t need the cards,” Bridgette said to the clerk. “I bought them for my boyfriend, but he’s not my boyfriend now.”

“I’ll be your boyfriend if you buy me some games,” a guy stocking the shelves said.

“That is inappropriate,” the woman said in a scolding tone. She stared at Bridgette. “How much do you have?”

“Four hundred.” With the words out of her mouth, she felt ashamed. She was always loving boys too much, giving more than they would ever give her. Her coworkers had been right.
The woman looked Bridgette up and down and settled on her flip-flops while her youngest son silently fingered the merchandise on display. She opened her wallet and pulled out four crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Even trade.” She gave the cash to Bridgette and handed the cards to the clerk.

“Oh my God, thank you!” Bridgette said. “Now I need to figure out what to do with the broken Xbox and the games he left behind.”

“We do buy-backs,” the clerk said.

“How much?”

The boy shrugged. His hair was so long, he kept pushing it behind his ear. “Depends.”

“It’s on the website,” the woman said. “You aren’t going to get much. Do a yard sale. Sell it online. Ask around.” She took her boxes and walked to the door with her perfect children huddled around her.

In that moment, Bridgette could see her future-self wearing that woman’s expensive shoes, piling her kids into a minivan or a luxury SUV.

Bridgette turned to go, but the clerk stopped her. He touched her arm. Something about him was really attractive. He had a boyish grin and a dimple on his left cheek. He looked amazing in his Captain America T-shirt.

“Don’t tell my boss,” he whispered, “but I could probably fix your Xbox. I’m off in a few minutes. I could take a look at it. Maybe we could go get tacos.”

“I don’t feel like tacos, but maybe something else.” Her eyes traced his baby-soft face. There was a smudge of food, spaghetti sauce maybe, on the corner of his lip. No Slushies for this one. “I can drive.”

“That’s good. I don’t have a car.”

Perfect.