Page 134 of The Breakup Artists

My face reddens, and my mood goes from bad to worse. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

August looks at me doubtfully. “You want me to talk to him?”

“No, I’m going to ignore him. And that’s that.”

Which is fine, except now Bentley is at the hostess stand and she’s leading him to a table. The only one that’s empty, which happens to be two away from ours. He sits with his back to us; I’m not even sure he knows we’re here. It’s a table for two. And all I can think is that he’s on a date. That a girl is going to walk into the restaurant, maybe even Cassie, and my head is going to shoot off my body like an eff-you rocket.

After what feels like four hours but is probably four minutes, I lose my patience. I stand, throwing my napkin at my seat. “I’m going to kill him, August,” I angry-whisper. “And you’re going to bail me out of jail when I do. You hear me?”

Then I march over there like the Hulk.

I point at him. “This is my favorite restaurant and you know it,” I say, all fire and determination. I can’t so much as breathe or walk out my door without glimpsing Bentley with his siblings or lifting weights or jumping off the dock, and as much as I want to just bounce back and brush it off, I can’t. He meant something. More than something. And I’m angry he broke it.

“Valentine,” he says like he’s relieved, and it’s such an unexpected reaction that I pause.

I glance at the empty seat at the table, and I feel the pain of it deep in my chest. “I can’t believe—”

His eyes widen. “I’m not on a—I mean, no one’s sitting there. I’m here by myself,” he stumbles like he can hear my thoughts.

“Why would you come here by—” I start and stop. “My god, youfollowedme here?”

He raises his hands in surrender. “No, definitely not,” he says quickly. “I wasn’t following you. I was actually on my way to the hardware store when I...” His voice trails off, and he looks down at his hands. When his gaze meets mine, he seems thoroughly embarrassed. “I was walking by when I saw you and August in the window. You were making that expression you make when you’re really upset. And well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I was only going to stay a minute, just to see...” Bentley trails off again and his laugh is sad. “Now that I’m saying this out loud, it sounds ridiculous. It was a split-second decision. I didn’t think it out that well.” He pushes his chair back and gets up from the table, looking thoroughly sheepish. “I do want to talk to you. A lot. But I never meant to put you on the spot. I was trying to respect your space. I just... Anyway, sorry. Again.”

He walks away, head hanging. I glance back at August, who is diligently studying his straw, meaning he heard the whole thing. Bentley opens the door to leave, and yet I stand at his table, frozen by indecision.

He was worried I was sad, I think, some part of me reflexively softening. Ugh. No. Iamsad. And he should feel bad about it. I press my lips together, telling myself to go back to August, but still I stand there. When Bentley disappears from view, my chest tightens, like the invisible tether that once bound us together is pulling on me to follow. And like a fool, I head for the door, yanking it open and stepping onto the sidewalk.

The humid air is scented with sugary cinnamon from the donut shop next door, and the cheeriness feels like a personal affront. A second passes before I spot Bentley, who’s turning the corner, not toward the hardware store like he said, but away from town.

I jog up to him, and he looks so genuinely happy about it that I scowl.

“You followed me,” he says gently, like he’s afraid he might spook me if he speaks full volume. I feel his yearning so viscerally that it tugs at me.

I look up at the canopy of leafy green over our heads as though there might be an answer in the tree branches. I shouldn’t have run after him. Why on earth did I think this was the right move?

“You never gave me a chance to explain,” he says quietly when I don’t speak. “You hung up on me.”

His words needle me, and I find my voice. “Because you lied to me.”

He exhales. “You’re right. I did.”

My heart breaks all over again. “Look, I don’t want some lame excuse or an admission that you can be better. The one thing that made me trust you—the honesty pact—is broken and irreparable.”

“I deserve that,” he says, which only frustrates me more.

“Yes, you do,” I agree. And for a second, I stand there awkwardly. How do you argue with someone who isn’t arguing with you?

“But you don’t know why you’re mad,” he says.

“I know enough.”

“Do you?” he asks.

For a brief second, I doubt myself. “Did you or did you not hook up with Cassie?”

“I didn’t,” he says.

“You hesitated on the phone. I know—”