Page 127 of The Breakup Artists

She laughs. “I think I like conciliatory August. Can you be wrong more often?”

“Yeah, no.”

She wags her eyebrows at me. “What would you say if I suggested matching outfits?”

“I’d say get a dog.”

“Or maybe...” she says, going on to list ridiculous things that are never going to happen.

But I can’t help but smile; she’s pretty funny.

* * *

We exit Bob’s Diner, stuffed on ice cream and greasy food, yet somehow lighter than either of us has felt in a good long while.

“I’ll drive,” Tiny says and puts her hand out for the keys.

“You never want to drive.”

“Yeah, but it’s a beautiful night, and I feel... different. So I figure, why not shake things up?” she says.

“If you say so.”

While we talked a little more at the diner about all the crap that’s been happening, we were careful to avoid the subject of Berkeley, not wanting to chance another fight. I’m just not sure if the nonmention is because she didn’t mean it or because she did.

We climb in her Jeep, and she kicks off her left flip-flop, putting her foot awkwardly up by the vent, a driving position literally no one else employs.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” she says as she starts her engine and turns down the music. “For what you did with Ella. Opening up like that.”

“Didn’t make a difference.”

She heads out of the parking lot. “Still, it was brave. And romantic. And thoroughly un-August-like.”

I shrug, looking out the window.

“I could help you think of a—”

“Tiny, she hates me.”

She’s quiet a second, glancing at me in that Tiny way that tells me she’s not giving up. We’re about to pass the street where Des had the accident, and I study my hands, avoiding looking out my window.

Tiny notices, only instead of sighing or pretending she didn’t see, she slams on the break.

I look up. She grips the wheel tighter than necessary, like she’s nervous, and instead of staying straight, she turns.

Then suddenly I realize what she’s doing. I stare at her in shock.

But she doesn’t look at me. She just drives down the dead-end street with the soccer field on one side and the woods on the other and pulls to a stop in front ofthetree with the dent in it from Kyle’s car.

My heartbeat rapid fires in my temples, and even though the windows are down, I can’t get a single breath of air. “This isn’t funny,” I snap.

“No, it’s not,” she says so quietly I almost don’t hear her. “But we can’t pretend it away.”

I stare at her, stunned. “You think I don’t know thatmy sister died? You think I go one day, one hour, without thinking about it?”

“No, I don’t. But even though we talked about deep personal things tonight, we didn’t say one word about Des. And at first, I thought that was okay. I was just happy we made up. Touting myself as this perfect friend who’s always so supportive. And then it occurred to me that I’m not. That I never talk about the one thing that hurts you the most.”

“Which is fine,” I say in my most controlled voice, “becauseIdon’t want to talk about it.”