Page 117 of The Breakup Artists

Can you give the phone to Bentley?

I frown, realizing that if I do, she won’t see the Cassie text.

Me

I’d rather give it to you.

Tiny

I’m home today. Have to talk to my parents. So I’m not seeing Bentley.

There is nopretty please, August of the house of good hairor any of the flowery language she usually uses. Is Tiny mad?

Me

Okay.

I text her briefly that before the blowup at the party, Ella told me she was going to break up with Justin, but I have no idea if she followed through. I see her message bubble pop up and disappear, but in the end she doesn’t respond. I don’t text her again, knowing we’re both in off moods and there’s nothing to say anyway.

I stand up, ready to be done with the whole thing and Bentley in general. I reach for my jeans, but as I do, I reconsider and grab my swim trunks instead, hoping the water will distract me from my spiraling thoughts.

57

valentine

My mind loops the many disasters from last night, all of which are impossible to mediate from my current hiding spot in bed. I kick my legs out of the fluffy comforter and grab my robe, scrolling through my text conversation from yesterday with Mr. Becker, rereading it for the hundredth time, trying to figure out how to handle it.

Mr. Becker

Once again, I must request the recording verifying that Justin is cheating.

Me

I’m sorry, but I cannot give that to you. Please trust me that a breakup is coming without it.

Mr. Becker

Do not forget that I’ve hired you for a service, one you are currently not providing.

I tried to call him earlier this morning, twice, but he didn’t answer. So I sent this:

Me

I am here to discuss this if you’d like.Please feel free to call me back.

But it’s been crickets ever since. I haven’t told August yet because honestly, I’m too annoyed to talk to him right now.

Once Bentley got his phone back, he asked if I wanted to chat, but I’ve yet to take him up on it. We never fully resolved our tiff from last night, but we both seem to have silently agreed that there are bigger problems afoot than Bentley’s locker-room bragging, which honestly has nothing to do with me or our relationship. He assured me he never spoke about me that way, and I recognize that while it sounds bad, it’s no worse than the way I’ve critiqued some of my dates’ kissing styles with August. My pride was stung, and I was trying so hard to micromanage the interaction between Bentley and August that I got my back up. But once I took a breath, I could see the sense in the fact that everyone talks to their friends about relationships and hookups and that those conversations don’t always sound admirable when repeated out of context.

I make my way to the top of the stairs, listening for my parents and debating going down at all. I know I can’t live in my room forever, but I also don’t think I can handle their disappointment.

When the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls wafts up to me, my stomach rumbles and I give in, grabbing the railing.

“Mom? Dad?” I say when I reach the first floor.

“Valentine,” Mom replies from the living room, where she holds a cup of steaming tea on the couch next to my dad.

I drag my sorry self into the room, plop down in the armchair, and pull my knees up under my chin.