Me, You, & The Party Rock Crew

“My cold heart is at -248 degrees. It stopped the day you erased me. (Damn)” -RM of BTS, 134340 (Pluto), 2017.

Hey Izzie–or is it Isabella now? 

I wanted to start this off by saying, I hope you’re doing well. I know it’s been a very long time since we’ve last spoken and, honestly, I’m not sure where to start off with. I know we both said things, I know a lot has happened between us, and, I know that I hurt you. The last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt you or lead you on in the way that I did. It was irresponsible and, we both were hurt by the end of it. 

Hala’s wedding is coming up and I know things might be awkward because we’re both part of the wedding party but, I wanted to extend an olive branch to you. I wanted to see when you’d be back in Chicago, maybe you and I could meet up at that old coffee shop we’d always go to in college and we can hash out what happened and try and work things out–at least for the sake of Hala and Martin and from there, you can tell me to fuck off into the sunset after that. I miss you, Iz, and I’m very sorry for hurting you. I hope we can connect soon. 

Sincerely, 

Simon J. Mankowski 

Izzie had read the email six times now. Maybe seven. Each word pressed into her like a fingerprint, leaving an imprint she couldn’t quite shake. She could hear his voice in her head–not the teenage rasps he once knew, but the deeper timbre that settled in around sophomore year of college. It still carried that familiar roughness, though, like an old song she hadn’t played in years but somehow still knew the lyrics to. 

She let her head fall back against the loveseat, staring at the ceiling as if the answer might be there. In the background, Stelly batted her mouse toy across the floor, the soft scuffle of paws breaking the stillness. The evening news droned on, but the words barely registered. The waves outside hummed low and steady, grounding her in the present while her mind drifted somewhere else–somewhere years away

I miss you, Iz. 

The words echoed in her head like the chorus of an Olivia Rodrigo song. Maybe it was a mistake opening the email. Maybe she should’ve seen this coming. Sooner or later, they were bound to collide again, pulled back into the same orbit. But seeing his name in her inbox, reading his words–it felt like ripping off a bandaid that had been stuck to her skin for too long, peeling away not just the wound, but the layers underneath. 

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. 

She had to do this for the school, she told herself. It was professional. Necessary. He could help. 

Or–

She could tell him she didn’t owe him closure. 

Her stomach clenched. The seesaw in her mind tipped back and forth, and for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure which way she wanted it to land. 

I miss you, Iz. 

The words swirled in her head like a hurricane and just like that, she was fourteen again. 

Izzie could still hear their mischievous laughter echoing in the back of her mind as she sat curled up on her loveseat, staring intently at Simon’s email. A bowl of mac and cheese rested in her lap, the warmth comforting against her palms

“I can do this, I can do this,” she muttered to herself. 

She took a rather large, determined bite of her food, set the bowl aside, and clicked the reply button. 

Hi Simon, 

It’s good to hear from you again. I hope you’re doing well. 

She started at the words, huffed, and then deleted them. 

Nope. Too professional, she thought. 

She tried again. 

Hi Simon, 

Thank you for reaching out to me after 4 long, excruciating years and about 1K of therapy. 

She snorted–good one. But too petty. Damn shame. Delete. 

Good evening Simon, 

Congratulations on getting engaged to the one person who has hated my guts for the last 10+ years. You’re an asshole. 

Izzie groaned, leaning back into the cushions. She stretched her arms over her head, then reached for her mac and cheese, taking another oversized bite. 

Why is this so hard? 

She exhaled slowly, flexed her fingers, and tried again. 

Hey Simon, 

It’s good to hear from you again. Long time no talk. I appreciate your heartfelt email–I imagine it wasn’t an easy one to write. 

I understand Hala’s wedding is coming up, and considering she was once one of your closest friends, you want to do right by her. I respect that. I’d like to meet at our old coffee shop so we can settle whatever needs to be settled. That way, we can go into Hala and Martin’s wedding on a better note–if not cordial, then at least civil. 

I’ll leave my personal cell number below so we can coordinate when to meet. As you’ll see, my number hasn’t changed. 

Also–I had a question about fixing wires. My school’s having a dance soon, and IT thinks the wiring is a lost cause. I know you’ve worked tirelessly with AV and lighting, and you’re pretty handy at making things work again. I can send you pictures from my phone, and maybe we can troubleshoot together. Think of it as me extending an olive branch. I have until tomorrow evening to figure this out, so hopefully the timeline works for you. Let me know.

Best, 

Isabella Wallace

(630) 422-0621 (Personal cell) 

Izzie let out a breath and, before she could second-guess herself, hit send. 

Closing her laptop, she sank deeper into the loveseat, letting the tension slip from her shoulders. For the first time in a long while she felt–if not at peace–at least proud of herself. 

The Next Morning

As Izzie brushed her teeth, swaying slightly to Bing Crosby’s White Christmas–the BTS V version, of course–her phone buzzed against the marble counter. 

She expected it to be a message from Maisie about work or Riley, probably an update on her and Tony’s attempts with baby # 2. Instead, the notification flashed with a familiar 630 area code. 

Before she could even process it, Apple automatically assigned a name: 

Maybe: Simon Mankowski.

That familiar twist coiled in her chest again. 

Simon: Good morning Izzie. Thanks for your email. What’s the problem with the wires? 

She inhaled deeply, trying to focus on Kim Taehyung’s warm, crooning voice. You’ve got this. You can do this. The ball was in her court for a change. 

Izzie: Good morning, Simon. Thank you for responding back. Here are the pictures–let me know what you think. 

Her response sent, she turned back to her morning routine. 

Between skincare, makeup, and double-checking that Stelly had eaten, she barely glanced at her phone. But by the time she was out the door–blazer on, purple raincoat draped over her arm, umbrella, and lunch box in hand–her phone buzzed again. 

Once in the elevator, she finally checked. Three texts. 

Damn, he’s still a yapper. 

Simon: YIKES! 

Simon: Okay, it doesn’t look terrible, I’ve seen worse. 

Simon: It’s fixable. I have time today between 10 am-11:30 AM PST or between 3 PM-8 PM PST to help you troubleshoot. 

There was a wave of relief that crashed over her. Not that bad. He’s seen worse. This is good. This means troubleshooting won’t be hard. 

It also meant something else. 

She’d have to hear his voice again. 

And, more than likely, FaceTime him. 

Not ready for that. 

Izzie: That’s a relief. 

Izzie: I have meetings from 10- noon, but between 3-8 works best for me.
Izzie: Could we do between 3-4 AM? 

Simon: Sure. I’ll schedule you in at 3-4 pm PST.
Simon: I’ll send a calendar invite. 

Izzie: Thanks Simon. 

Simon: Any time, Iz. 

Simon: Oh. By the way, when are you back home? 

She froze, fingers hovering over the keyboard as she slid into her car. 

Right. The in-person olive branch at the coffee shop. 

With a sigh, she tore off another band-aid. 

Izzie: December 20th, 8 AM CST. 

Simon: Want to meet on the 21st or 22nd? 

Izzie: 22nd? 

Simon: 10 AM? 

She let out an exasperated huff, gripping her steering wheel. Why must he always insist at 10 AM? 

Izzie: Glad to see you still love to torment me. Sure. 

Simon: LOL, would it be me if I hadn’t? 

She deadpanned into the invisible camera like she was on The Office, then shook her head and started the Jeep. 

She needed a full-on radio cleanse to get through this, and as always, the radio would come through for her. From Olivia Rodrigo’s “Good 4 U” to SZA’s “Kill Bill”, by the time she pulled into work, she felt a little more refreshed–enough to brave this Thursday morning. 

The morning went on like clockwork. She arrived just as Mr. Tim would unlock the school around 6:40 AM, greeting him with a small wave and a smile as she made her way inside. By the time she got to her office and turned on her walkie, Maribel’s sing-songy “Good morning!” chirped through the speaker, a daily ritual signaled their first conversation of the day. 

Izzie smirked, settling into her chair, propping her feet up on the edge of her desk before calling Maribel. 

“You sound far too perky. What’s the tea?” 

Maribel chuckled; the faint rustling of her setting up the morning program echoed in the background. On occasion, Izzie could hear Skylar’s sleepy yawn or Emilio’s quiet humming. The AM Dream Team, as Izzie called them. 

“So, Adrian’s mom wants to visit,” Maribel started. 

Izzie, who had been casually twirling a pen between her fingers, suddenly paused. She sat up slightly, raising a brow. 

“Last I checked, you were Adrian’s mom,” she shot back, before catching herself. “Sorry, continue. 

A bad habit–cutting people off. One she was trying to work on. Again. 

“It’s fine,” Maribel assured her with a laugh. “But, um…yeah. She wants to see him and Esmeralda. I guess she’s finally coming to terms with the fact that her kids are growing up and wants to be present in their lives…” 

There was a pause for a moment. Izzie picked up her water bottle and took a slow sip, waiting for Maribel to finish. But she knew her friend too well–Maribel was bracing for Izzie’s unfiltered opinion. 

Izzie tilted her head, tapping her pen against her desk. “So which guy dumped her this time?” 

Maribel snorted. 

“Gregory.” 

“Oof.” Izzie whistled low, shaking her head. “That’s a hit. That’s why she’s coming around again. Free therapy–from her own kids.” 

Another sigh crackled through the receiver.” 

Izzie leaned back, spinning slightly in her chair. “Look, I know it was unfair that Jocelyn dumped her kids on you, but for what it’s worth, you’re a natural and they love you. I mean, little Esme literally calls you Mommy and runs into your arms when she gets off the bus. And Adrian? Sure, he might be in his awkward, lanky teen years, but you can tell he admires you. He emulates your leadership, after all.” 

Maribel was quiet for a moment, and Izzie could picture her blinking back emotion. 

“Thanks, Iz. I needed to hear that.” 

Izzie exhaled, drumming her fingers against the desk before glancing at the clock. 7:05 AM. Time to start the day. 

“Don’t let Jocelyn cramp your style,” she added. “You’re the coolest mom I know.” 

“Thank you, seriously. Now,” Maribel sniffled. “I’ve got a parent at the door and I need to pull myself together. We’ll talk later?” 

“Always. Have a super great day!” Izzie said in a sing-songy voice. 

“You have a super great day!” Maribel echoed the same. 

With that, the morning rolled on as usual. 

At around 7:30, Maisie strolled in, a victorious grin plastered across her face as she set a box of donuts on Izzie’s desk. “A celebratory treat, courtesy of, you finally pulling your head out of your ass, and responding to Simon.” 

Izzie shot her a flat look. “First of all, rude. Second of all, I will not be giving you the satisfaction–” She grabbed a donut anyway, taking a dramatic bite. 

Maisie smirked. “Uh-huh. Thought so.” 

Not long after, Jose made his way through the door. His eyes immediately locked onto the donuts. 

“Oh, thank God,” he exhaled, snatching one and taking an aggressive bite. “I thought we were cooked. 

“Dang, Velasquez,” Mr. Terry chuckled, attempting to clap him on the shoulder. Jose swiftly dodged. “Forget to eat breakfast this morning?” 

“Actually–” Jose started, mouth half-full, ready to fire back– 

When a sharp voice cut through the room. 

“Why is he calling now?!” From Izzie’s office. 

The energy shifted instantly. 

Maisie and Jose exchanged glances, while Mr. Terry, halfway through chewing, raised a brow. 

Jose tilted his head toward Maisie. “Is this a Simon thing?” he murmured. 

Maisie just grinned. “Oh, it’s definitely a Simon thing.” 

Izzie stared at the screen as the automated contact photo appeared. A few seconds stretched into what felt like hours. The sandy blond hair, perfectly combed to one side. The five o’clock shadow sharp along his jawline. The same emerald green eyes she remembered–now framed by a pair of Ray-Ban glasses. 

Right. She forgot he wears glasses now. 

She gave herself a quick shake, straightened her posture, and answered the call.

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Iz,” Simon answered, his voice bright, almost too easy. 

“Hey Simon,” Izzie grinned. “What’s up?” 

“Sorry, I’m calling so early in the day, I wanted to check and see if you had a few minutes to run the wire diagnostics with me or if your IT guy is there, if you wanted to connect him with me?” 

Izzie glanced at the time, biting her lip in thought. His timing could not have been worse, but when she looked up, Jose and Maisie were sitting at the front office, both very obviously pretending not to eavesdrop. 

She hesitated for a second before shifting gears. “You know what, Si–Simon,” she stumbled slightly, cursing herself, “my morning is unfortunately booked. However, I can absolutely connect you with Mr. Velasquez. He’s here right now, actually!” 

Jose, catching her tone, quickly scrambled out of his seat and knocked on Izzie’s door with a knowing grin. 

“Hey, you wanted to see me?” he asked, all faux innocence. 

“Yes, actually,” Izzie said brightly. “My old friend Simon wanted to see if you were available to work on the wires with him.” She barely finished before mouthing, “Please help me.” 

“I got you,” Jose mouthed back, barely restraining a laugh.

“Oh, uh, great!” Simon cleared his throat. “We’ll talk later, then?” 

“Sure,” Izzie wasted no time handing her phone off to Jose, who answered seamlessly. 

“Simon, right? This is Jose Velasquez, head of IT. How are you this morning?” Jose winked as he stolled off with Izzie’s phone, heading toward his office. 

Izzie let out the biggest sigh of relief. 

Maisie barely had a second to step into her office before Mrs. Muller entered, dragging in Julian and another kid, Gunner. 

“Ms. Wallace,” Maisie called out, but Izzie had already spotted the situation and made her way to the front. 

Mrs. Muller was only a couple of years older than Izzie and Maisie, but she insisted on everyone calling her Mrs. Muller, no more, no less. She was cold, rigid, and uptight, but she ran the highest-performing English Lit class in the school. 

“Good morning, everyone,” Izzie greeted. 

“Not a good morning for these two, Ms. Wallace,” Mrs. Muller scowled. “They were caught arguing at their lockers rather than making their way to homeroom during the bell.” 

Izzie often wondered what put that stick up Mrs. Muller’s ass. For crying out loud, they were in their early thirties, and yet that woman acted like she was freshly fifty, divorced, running on black coffee and resentment. 

“I’ll have a chat with them,” Izzie offered before she was cut off with a sharp–

“I’d say both of them should get an out-of-school suspension and neither of them should be invited to attend the dance.” 

Julian visibly paled. Right, Izzie recalled. He was supposed to ask Camille. 

“Let me get to the bottom of the situation first,” she politely countered. “Hear both sides of the–” 

“I already told you what happened,” Mrs. Muller interrupted. 

“Yes, your side was told. Theirs wasn’t.” 

“I don’t see how–” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Muller,” Izzie said, her voice a shade firmer, no longer as patient. 

Mrs. Muller narrowed her piercing blue eyes, but finally let go of the boys. As she turned to leave, she muttered under her breath, “I don’t know how we wound up with someone so bullheaded…” 

Izzie heard it. And Izzie let it slide–for exactly two seconds. 

“Have a super great day!” she called after her, her voice as sugary sweet as the donut she had just moments ago. 

Cranky ass bitch. She thought to herself. 

She always had to have the last word after all.