Author's Note: I still can't see chapter one of this story. No matter what browser I use or what computer I'm on, I get "Story is unavailable for reading. (A)" I cleared browsing history and cache as well. Any suggestions how I can fix this? Other people are facing the same issue. I'm not sure if I'll be able to see chapter two either, but here it is.

Two weeks go by and Larry and I are hanging on as a couple by a thread. I don't invite him to spend the night when we do hang out, and he doesn't ask if he can. In my past relationships, it's been relatively easy and painless to break up with guys, but this time it's a little more complicated. His grandfather was my mentor, and if I hurt Larry, I'll hurt Mr. Bloom. I suppose that's why I haven't had the guts to sever ties with his grandson.

Tasha sets a vase of red roses on my desk. "You're a pussy."

She and I are about as close as work friends get, but she's never talked to me like that. "I'm a what?"

"A pussy," she enunciates.

I take the small envelope off the plastic stick. "That was rhetorical."

She folds her arms over her big bosom. "Let me guess—they're from Larry?"

I open the card and raise my eyes over it to look at her. "Yes."

"There are only four occasions when a man sends flowers," she begins, ticking each one off with her fingers tipped with bright yellow fake nails. "Valentine's Day if he's smart; after the first time you had sex if you was real good; on your anniversary; or if he's trying to apologize for something." She pauses. "It ain't Valentine's, so you can count that one out. I know ya'll had sex before even though I don't want to picture it." She makes a face. "By my calculations, you ain't had your one-year anniversary yet, so he must be trying to make up for something."

I have to give it to her—she's pretty fucking wise as far as relationships go.

"There's nothing he has to apologize for." I place the card back in its holder. "He sent flowers because he's a nice guy."

She perches on the corner of my desk. "A nice guy you want to dump."

I let out a long sigh. "Is it that obvious?"

She raises her brows. "That's why I'm calling you a pussy."

"For not breaking up with him?"

"Exactly." She gets to her feet. "Old Mr. Bloom don't work here no more—it's not like you have to keep dating his grandson to stay in his good graces."

"But Larry is good for me," I rebuttal.

"Good for you don't mean shit if you don't love the man!" she replies. "Kale is good for me, but you don't see me eatin' that vile, fake lettuce every day, do you?"

She certainly has a way with words.

"You gotta pull the plug, boo. Rip off the Band-Aid."

"Mixed metaphors aside, I know," I sigh again. "I'll do it soon."

"I'm giving you a deadline." Tasha pulls out a single flower.

"You're giving me a deadline?" I chuckle. "You work for me, remember?"

"I work for the company." She smells the rose. "If you don't break up with Larry by the end of October, you have to take me to the best restaurant in Seattle—the Met."

My pulse quickens as a vision of the tall, black haired woman enters my mind at the mention of the steakhouse.

"What does breaking up with Larry have to do with me buying you a dinner?"

She walks towards the door. "Nothin' but I'm gonna guess you'd rather save that C-Note than spend it on my broke ass."

I smile.

"I'm gonna take this rose, too." She sniffs it again. "You still got 11 of 'em."

Maybe all the motivation I need to break up with Larry is a bet with our nosy but perceptive receptionist. No time to think about that now—it's time to get to work.

I don't staff a ton of open houses unless it's a premier property and I feel like I should be front and center to make connections not only with other realtors, but also with wealthy clients. I spent just about every weekend my first few years at the firm doing these open houses, and now, that job has shifted to Maritza and Carmine, our two newest hires.

I step into the palatial condo on Pine Street. "How'd it go?"

"Really well." Maritza hands me the guestbook. "There must've been 50 or 60 people who came through."

I flip the pages to see if any names are recognizable. "Good. Any solid hits?"

"That guy from The Gemini Group, Ari, I think is his name, said we'd probably see an offer tomorrow," she says. "And a woman from Rainier Realty said she'd try to put something together this evening."

I look up from the guestbook. "Someone from Rainier Realty was here?"

"I didn't catch her name." She nods. "But I'm sure her card is in here somewhere." Maritza hands me a stack of business cards. "Thanks for saving me this afternoon. I really have to go."

"Yeah…thanks for staffing this one for me."

"You're welcome." She straps her purse over a shoulder. "I'll grab the open house signs on the way out if you'll just vacuum upstairs and lock up."

"Got it." I wave. "See you Monday."

I shuffle through the business cards as I make my way to the sofa. Sure enough, Ari Klein was here from The Gemini Group, Brad Rossi from Evergreen and Lisa Haik from Northwest Hospitality. I sit down and flip through a few more cards from firms I know well, but from agents with whom I'm unfamiliar. I get to the last one and stare at it: A.P. Vause, Rainier Realty.

Vause, Vause…I tap the card against my thigh and try to place how I know that name.

"This is the Humanities wing," Madison, our tour guide, says as she walks backwards. "All of the English and social studies classes are here. If you look at your schedule, you'll see a room number that begins with a six. Find your assigned classroom and peek inside if you want."

I tug the beige sheet of paper from my folder and look for room numbers that begin with six. Sure enough, my geography class is in 605 and my English class is in 610. As luck would have it, I won't have to cross campus for my first two classes of the day.

"Let's check out the Science wing," Madison says when we're gathered as a group again. "As freshmen, you're only allowed to take one science class, so that's most likely going to be environmental science or physical science this semester." She gestures to her left. "Those are in rooms 700 and 701."

"They're just regular classrooms," I note. "Doesn't the school have science labs?"

"Labs are for the upper division classes like chemistry and physics." She points down the corridor. "They're just down the hall if you want to check them out."

I tuck my schedule back into its folder and walk down the corridor lined with lockers until I find a science lab. I step inside the first one I come to and immediately smell chemicals. I can't wait to take AP Chem next year. Just as I'm about to leave, I hear giggling coming from the front of the room. I also notice a Bunsen burner is lit.

"Hello?" I take a few tentative steps towards the laughter. "Is anyone in here?"

Two girls' heads pop up from behind the teacher's desk. One cracks a smile and the other resumes the giggling.

"What are you doing?" I ask even though I should probably mind my own business.

"We're uh…" the giggling girl stutters.

"Working on a science project," the girl with shoulder length, blue-tipped hair recovers for her friend.

I glance at the cigarette in her hand, but she quickly hides it behind her back. Taking in another deep breath of what I thought were chemicals, I realize it's not the smell of chlorine or acetone—it's marijuana. I've only smelled it a couple times when my older brother had some friends over for a party when my parents were out of town, but it's a distinctive smell.

I need to get out of this situation. I walk backwards until my legs bump into a desk. "I should…"

They both laugh as I turn and stumble out of the classroom. I jog down to room 700, but my tour group is gone. I peek inside 701, but they aren't there either. I run down another long hallway and finally spot them.

"Excuse me, Madison?"

She turns in my direction.

"I saw some…there were two girls…" I swallow hard.

She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

I step closer. "Two girls are smoking pot in one of the labs."

She seems to try to hide a grin. "What did they look like?"

"One had this wild, red hair and the other had dark hair with blue tips."

"Sounds like Nichols and Vause." Madison turns and begins walking. "They're seniors."

I'm shocked at her laissez faire attitude. "Shouldn't we tell the authorities?"

"The authorities?" she chuckles. "It won't change anything—those two are always in trouble."

Could it be—is A.P. Vause really Alex Vause from high school? Why would she use her initials instead of her full name? A few realtors do that like J.P. Thompson and R.J. Swaybe, but Alex is a perfectly fine name. Maybe she thought clients would think she's a man. If that's the case, A.P. certainly doesn't sound any more feminine.

It's not like we knew each other well—or at all—in high school. Alex was a mischievous senior who always broke the rules, and I was a Goody Two Shoes freshman who followed them to the T. We didn't have any classes together nor did we hang out with the same crowd. As I recall, we only spoke a handful of times.

I'd all but forgotten about Alex after she graduated (if she graduated). To think she might very well be one of the hottest-selling new realtors in town blows my mind.

"Knock knock," comes a female voice from the doorway.

The voice startles me, and I drop the stack of business cards on the rug and a few fall under the sofa. I get on my knees to pick them up.

The woman speaks again. "My client thinks she left her cell phone somewhere in here. Mind if I take a quick look around?"

"Not at all." I gather the last few cards and get to my feet. As soon as I look up, I recognize her. "It's you…"

She squints and twists her neck a bit. "Do I know you?"

"Yes, I was…" I step around the sofa and reframe my statement. "You asked me for a light outside of the Metropolitan Grill a few weeks ago."

"Oh, right." She slowly nods. "You'd just told your boyfriend to shove it."

I let out a light laugh. "Not exactly."

"He wanted to move in with you," she says instead as if remembering what transpired that night.

I'm a little embarrassed—I shouldn't have told a stranger about what happened between me and Larry at dinner.

She shoves a hand in the pocket of her designer slacks. "If I remember correctly, you left with him."

"I didn't actually." I shake my head in a quick burst. "In fact, I went to my car and thought about joining you at the bar."

One brow hikes up. "Why didn't you?"

"I did," I begin. "Or at least I tried…I turned the corner, and you were walking out."

"Ah, right." She looks down. "That was a good night."

I want to ask her what was so good about it, but she speaks first. "What are you doing here?"

"Me?" I ask as if it should be obvious.

She nods.

"I'm the realtor representing this place."

"I met the realtor a half hour ago." Her eyes travel down my body. "You are definitely not her."

Maritza is beautiful and has a killer body, there's no denying that, but I take offense to such a comment.

"No, I'm not. She's an entry-level agent," I say with my chin held high. "I've been in this business for more than ten years. Given my seniority, I don't work open houses that often, but I can assure you—this is my listing."

She takes a step closer and I can smell her perfume with hints of cedar and vanilla. There's something earthy and arousing about the scent like it was made exclusively for this woman who exudes confidence and charm.

"I think you're mistaking what I meant."

I give her a quizzical glance.

"You don't look like the realtor here before, that's true," she begins. "But I didn't mean to suggest that's a bad thing."

Silence descends between us and I try to hold her gaze, but her green-eyed stare is too intense. I look away and wonder how she casts such a spell. Is she this mesmerizing to anyone she meets? Maybe that's her tactic for convincing a buyer to purchase a home. I would imagine she's very successful.

"My client is waiting for me in the car," she interrupts my musings. "I'm going to look for her phone."

"Oh, right." I quickly recover. "I'll help. What kind is it?"

"A Samsung Galaxy with a gold case." She jogs upstairs. "We were on the rooftop deck when she might've set it down."

As I check the dining area, the kitchen and the living room as well as the half-bath on the main level, I think about her asking me to join her for a drink the other night. Was she flirtatious because she was tipsy or was she just being nice since she knew I was down in the dumps?

"Found it." She trots down the steps and wiggles the phone. "It was in the master bathroom."

I realize I haven't even asked her name. Clearly she's a realtor, which is shocking enough considering the only thing I knew about her that night at the Met was that she gave up cigarettes in favor of cigars.

"I'm glad. It's crazy how attached we are to these things." I shove a sleeve up my arm. "I never got your name."

"A.P. Vause." She sticks her hand out. "Piper, right?"

"I'm sorry, what?" I shake my head. "You're A.P. Vause?"

Her forehead wrinkles. "Yeah, why?"

I raise my hand. "Mr. Simpson? Can I go to the bathroom?"

He sighs as if it's a burden on him to let me leave while taking a quiz. "Bring your exam up here, Ms. Chapman."

I can't believe this is happening. I hope I have a tampon in my locker. I rush down the hallway past the library and down the corridor that leads to the gym. I hate that my locker is so far from most of my classes, but freshmen don't get a choice. It still takes me two or three times to get the combination right on my bulky lock, but when I do, I quickly reach into the back and discover I do have a tampon. Thank God.

The nearest bathroom is actually in the girls' locker room, so I make my way along the side of the court as a group of seniors play kickball during PE. I keep my head down and turn into the area between the bleachers and push the swinging door that leads to the locker room.

There's a set of benches and stacked lockers on both sides of the rectangular room, so I walk through that area until coming to three bathroom stalls. I open the door to the biggest one and am startled to see two girls inside.

"Don't you know how to fucking knock?" the girl with light brown hair asks.

"I'm so sorry, I…" I jump back, hand flying to my mouth. "I need to use the restroom."

"There are two other stalls, kid." I recognize the deep-voiced girl from the chemistry lab when I was on a tour. "You had to choose this one?" She buttons her blouse.

"Sorry." I shut the door and lean against it, closing my eyes.

Were they having sex? My eyes open wide as I scurry to the stall furthest away. I've never seen two women kiss in my life let alone having sex. It's not like I saw anything, but my mind goes to places it's never been before.

"Stupid freshman!" the girl with a high-pitched voice yells. "Hurry up."

"I just started my period. It's going to take a minute." Why in the world am I telling them this? They don't need to know about my feminine issue.

"Do you need a tampon?" the deep-voiced girl asks.

"I have one, thanks."

I hear a slap. "What are you doing, trying to help her out?"

"I don't want her to bleed all over the fucking floor!"

I get everything under control, flush the toilet, wash my hands, then high tail it out of there. As I open the swinging door, I bump right into the PE teacher. "Sorry."

"Are Alex and Sylvie in here?" She looks over my shoulder. "Ladies, you can't skip PE again. Get out here now!"

"There's no one in here," I reply with a gulp. "I was just in the bathroom."

The coach stares at me. "You're sure?"

I nod. "Positive."

We walk out together.

"Shouldn't you be in class?"

"I'm going there now." I scurry down the hallway in the opposite direction, glad to be out of her crosshairs.

I'm not sure why I lied to protect two girls who clearly didn't appreciate me barging in on them in a precarious situation, but I don't care to examine it. I need to return to taking the quiz on a book I've read three times.

"You look familiar—I mean more than just that night at the Met," the real estate agent says. "Do we know each other?"

I swallow hard. "Did you go to Bellingham High School?"

She creases her brow. "Yeah, why?"

"Is your real name Alex Vause?"

She looks around as if she's just been caught stealing a diamond ring. "No one calls me that."

"It is you," I confirm, eyeing her up and down. "You look so different."

"We went to high school together?" she asks in a quiet voice as if someone could overhear our conversation.

I nod. "It's no surprise that you don't remember me— I was a freshman and you were a senior. We didn't hang out or anything."

"Piper…Piper…" she taps a finger against her mouth, and then her eyes bulge open. "Is your last name Chapman?"

I nod again, this time with a little more fervor.

Her lips curl up. "Well, fuck."

"You remember me?" Damn the hopefulness in my tone.

"Yeah—you were a scrawny little thing back then." Her eyes roam up and down my body. "And nosy as I recall."

"I prefer the word curious," I reply.

"I have zero interest in going to that meeting." Polly shoves a textbook in her locker.

I exchange my geography book for my algebra one. "Aren't you at all curious?"

"No." She slams her locker. "I'm going to the Debate Club meeting. I overheard Mark and Scott say they're going."

"You're attending a meeting you have no interest in because of boys?" I turn the dial on my lock and give it a good tug.

"Yes." She shrugs. "Come with me. It'll be fun."

As freshmen, we have to attend one club meeting every week during the second half of lunch. Supposedly, the administration thinks we'll discover our interests this way. When we find a club or two that we like, we can go exclusively to their lunchtime meetings for the rest of the year.

"I'll go to Debate Club next week," I say, following Polly down the corridor. "I want to check out this other one today."

"Suit yourself." She peels off in the opposite direction. "See you in fourth period!"

I scan the reader board to see where the Gay/Straight Alliance meeting is located, and then head to room 602. I'm a bit nervous about going to this meeting for fear I'll be pegged as a lesbian, but I'm simply a curious ally.

"We're selling these t-shirts to benefit the Trevor Project," a boy with a lilt in his voice says to a crowd of about 10 students when I walk in. "They're $15 each." He eyes me as I make my way to an empty desk. "Hello, welcome."

"Thank you." I sit behind the girl I now know is Nicky Nichols and scan the room for her dark haired friend.

I'm disappointed she's not here. There's something captivating about her that I can't quite put my finger on. It's not like we're kindred spirits or anything—we couldn't be any more different. Maybe therein lies the fascination.

The door swings open. "Sorry I'm late."

Speak of the devil.

"Detention again, Vause?" Nicky asks.

"Something like that." She saunters to the front of the room and sits next to her friend, but her eyes land on me for a fleeting moment.

My lips tug up and my curiosity persists. What was she in trouble for this time, I wonder?

"Maybe we should do a round of introductions seeing as we have at least four new students here," the boy suggests. "I'm Adam Herrera, this year's president of the Gay/Straight Alliance." He gestures to a boy to his right.

"Justin Stanley." He waves to everyone. "Vice president."

"Alex Vause, reluctant member." She takes a sip of chocolate milk from a tiny carton.

"Why reluctant?" Adam asks.

"Because I don't need a band of queers for moral support," she replies.

"Let's get this straight," Adam begins.

"Wait, who's straight?" Nicky grabs Alex's arm and looks around the room as if she's aiming for dramatic effect.

That makes Alex laugh and she flashes her pearly whites. She has a beautiful smile.

"Our group not only supports LGBTQ students, but we also support the mission of local and national clubs like ours. We champion rights for the marginalized among us," Adam announces. "If you believe in equal rights and gay marriage and want to be the change this world needs, we welcome you." He turns to Alex. "If not, please find another club."

"I'm here because there's a fucked up rule that we have to join one club," Alex responds. "This is the only one that even remotely matches my interests, so here I am. Doesn't mean I'm selling those ugly-ass t-shirts."

"I designed them," Justin says. "Screw you, Vause!"

"You wish," she says with a pronounced smirk.

"Eww, gross." He swats at her. "No, I don't."

Adam sticks his hands on his hips. "Alex, if you're going to stay here, please don't disparage our work or our members."

"But you're such easy targets," she shoots back, tossing her empty milk carton into the trash can a few feet away.

"Enough!" Adam slices his hands through the air. "We're not going to begin the year on the wrong foot. Let's get back to introductions."

Two students introduce themselves before it's my turn. "Hi, I'm Piper Chapman. I'm not gay, but I support the right for everyone to marry who they love."

"Hey, blondie," Nicky juts her elbow out, tapping my arm. "I'll take you under my wing—show you the ropes and stuff."

Alex lifts one perfectly manicured brow. "Not if I get to her first."

My heart swells at the prospect of getting to know the ill-behaved Alex Vause.

Just as my mind races with possibilities, the assistant principal barges in. "Alex, come with me."

She gets to her feet and sighs. "What did I do this time?"

"What's taking so long?" a woman enters the townhouse, eyes moving from Alex to me and then back to her.

"Sorry." Alex nudges her glasses. "Found it." She hands the phone to the other woman.

"Thank goodness. Where was it?"

"Master bath," Alex responds, and then turns to me. "Nice running into you again. I'm sure we'll see each other around."

"Yeah, ok…Right." I have so many questions I don't want to hold inside, but it's not like I can shoot them off in the middle of a condo I'm trying to sell. "See you around."

Alex is two steps behind her client, but she turns around and gives me a pointed look. "I go by A.P. now. Don't call me Alex."

I nod but remain silent.

My head is spinning. I close the door and return to the sofa to try to get a handle on what I've learned. First, the woman from the Metropolitan Grill is my competition in the real estate market. Second, not only did we go to high school together, but she's Alex Fucking Vause. Third, she has some weird thing about her name. I gloss over the fact that she's far more attractive than she was over 20 years ago.

I open the browser on my phone and first type in A.P. Vause. There are only eight links with that name, five of which are about real estate. Two are about charitable donations she's made in the past couple of years, and the most recent is about her appointment to the Board of Directors at Northwest Harvest, a statewide hunger relief organization. I open that link and see it was only posted two months ago. I scan the article to see if I can glean any personal information about Alex, but all I get is a statement that she grew up relying on Northwest Harvest and food banks around Western Washington. There's no mention of high school, college or her personal life. I open Facebook and type her name—nothing. Instagram, same thing. She has a LinkedIn profile, but again, it's all about her career as a real estate agent. In fact, the oldest post about A.P. Vause is a mere four years ago—it's like she didn't exist prior to that.

I pause and take a sip of my bottled water. It's evident that Alex's life prior to 'becoming' A.P. is something she'd rather stay hidden. I open a new search page and type in Alex Vause. I wait for the results to populate, and as soon as I see the first one, my eyes shoot open: Alex Pearl Vause released from prison on good behavior.

What? My eyes bug out as I click the link and read the details, which isn't much. I quickly open the next link followed by the one after that. It seems there's a good reason A.P. doesn't wish to be associated with her name anymore—she's a fucking felon.