Page 124 of The Breakup Artists

“Yes?” I say after pressing accept, knowing I should probably wait, that I’m too revved up to think clearly, but also not possessing that type of herculean restraint.

He, too, sits on his bed. “Can I explain?”

“Depends.” Anger tightens my chest. We messaged each other five thousand times this past week. I know which day he did his freaking laundry and that he lost his favorite sock, but somehow he forgot to tell me that he hung out with his ex-girlfriend? “Did you hook up with Cassie?”

“No,” he says, but it’s not an easy word. Bentley hesitates. And that hesitation speaks volumes.

Whatever slim hope I had of this being reparable disappears. Something happened; I can feel it in my bones. And honestly, I don’t think I want to know what it was, unable to handle one more disappointment. August was right, I know better than to get involved with someone like Bentley. And what pisses me off the most is that Bentley totally had me going on the idea that we had something special, that he was just waiting for me to have a real relationship. Even thinking it makes me embarrassed.

And so I do something I never do. I hang up. And when he calls back two more times, I block him. Then I cry into my pillow, a good long cry that feels like it might never stop.

62

august

My arms are exhausted and my shoulders burn, and when I pull myself out of the salty ocean, I collapse on the sand, taking big, labored breaths that catch in my throat. My skin tingles from the cold water, and the hot afternoon sun sets to drying it. But as my heart rate slows, my upsets come rushing back, oppressive and sharp. So I stand, running back into the ocean and diving under a wave, the hum of the water steadying me.

But even caught in the pull of the ocean, I can’t fully erase my conversation with my dad. And with the thought of him comes the familiar formation of lines and shapes, which makes me so angry that I dive deeper, swim harder.

I stand up, gasping for breath.

“Stop!” I yell into the salty air, punching the water in front of me, but it’s no use.

Ella was wrong. These sketches aren’t a way to reconnect with Des; they’re a curse. A reminder that I’ll never again give her one. That she’ll never yell in excitement. We won’t laugh. And things won’t be okay.

63

valentine

Two days since the blowup on the dock. It’s bad enough that Bentley’s bedroom window is visible from mine, but now he’s in clear view of the picture window, lifting weights in his yard while I’m eating dinner with my family.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mom asks as I push my food around my plate. The last thing she needs to worry about right now is my failed relationship with Bentley.

“Nope,” I respond. “Can I eat in my room?”

“I thought you hated your room, or so you told us a few days ago,” Dad says, trying to lighten the mood. Between me and Mom, he’s had one heck of a week trying to be cheery.

I shrug. “Changed my mind.”

My parents look at each other.

“Okay,” Mom says as I stand. “What if we told you that you’ve completed the self-reflection period; would you still want to go to your room?”

I know I should be happy to hear it, but it doesn’t feel like good news, just pressure to handle five thousand disasters.

“Yup,” I say and turn around, heading for the stairs.

I abandon my plate on the nightstand and fall onto my bed. I’ll just stay here for the rest of the night, watch a movie, and pass out—deal with it all in the morning.

But after fourteen minutes of ceiling staring, I stand up, my cyclical thoughts getting the better of me, and I resign myself to talking to August.

“Whatever,” I say to no one, not confident I’m making the right decision, but if I spend one more minute in my bedroom, I might torch it.

I change out of my pajamas and into a pair of cutoffs and a tank top. And I head back down the stairs. But as I near the kitchen, I hear my parents fighting.

“And how are we supposed to explain that to Valentine?” Dad objects.

“We don’t,” Mom replies in a tight voice.