Page 20 of The Breakup Artists

Tiny sighed. “I can’t wait to be kissed like that.”

“Gross,” I countered.

Tiny scooped salsa onto her chip where we sat at the picnic table, both of us having lost the past three races (badly). “But look at them. They’rein love.”

“Awesome conversation about my sister, but—”

“Did you see us, little brother? Absolute crushing win,” Des said, ruffling my wet hair with her hand before she shoved a sour-cream-and-onion chip in her mouth.

“I mean, it was hard not to see, the way you two shouted ‘Champions!’ and did ballet moves on the dock,” I said, doing my best impression of her.

It earned me a laugh from Kyle. “This kid is cool. You never told me your little brother was so funny.”

“Lies. I tell everyone,” she said and gave me a big kiss on the cheek, which instantly killed any cool points I might have earned.

10

valentine

The plastic supermarket basket August carries is teeming with candy and chips, but even so I cram in a box of mint cookies. My parents went to some black-tie event in Boston and left us take-out money, more than enough to get pizza and then drain our local grocer of its sweets. They’ll likely gripe about it later when they come home to find us passed out on the couch in a sea of candy wrappers, but I’ll have no regrets.

“Entire bag of tiny Kit Kats or two jumbo?” I ask.

August and I share a look, and in unison we both say, “Bag.”

“Now all we have to do is make the momentous decision of ice cream flavor, and we should be good to go,” I say, and for some reason I’m struck with a pang of nostalgia. “Man, I’m going to miss the candy shopping here.”

August laughs. “How can you miss something we’re currently doing?”

“I mean when we go to California,” I say.

He shrugs.

“What? You’re not?”

“Not really.”

For some reason his reply irks me. “How, though? This town is where we grew up. Where we learned to swim and started all our businesses. Had our movie nights.” Suddenly, I’m uncomfortable, not even sure where that came from or why I felt the need to say it so adamantly.

He gives me a questioning look. “I know. And you’ll have summers here.”

My stomach drops fast. “Me?As in you won’t be coming home for summer?”

He shrugs. Again. “Not sure.”

My eyes widen. “I’m the one who said I couldn’t wait to leave.” I point to my chest as though, somehow, I have dibs on the sentiment.

“Right. And I agree with you.”

I look at the candy, trying to reign in the freak-out that’s threatening to come. How could he just trash our entire childhoods like that? But when I turn back to August, he’s not looking at me. He’s staring down the aisle. And when I see who he’s staring at, I freeze.

There in the chip section is Kyle,Des’s Kyle, who has been away at college, who hasn’t come home for summers, who for all we knew (and hoped) dropped off the face of the planet. And is now right here, picking out a bag of chips as though he had any right.

I touch August’s arm, as if to say,Let’s just go.He doesn’t brush me off, but he also doesn’t respond. Then Kyle sees us. And for what feels like the most awful eternity none of us moves. My heart thumps in my ears, and I’m consumed with the knowledge that I can’t fix this.

Anger flashes across August’s face, and yet we all remain in the same uncertain posture, like we’re mannequins in a store window fighting to come to life.

All of a sudden Kyle snaps out of it, his look of shock transforming into the self-assured posturing we used to admire before we knew better. “If it isn’t little Mariani in the flesh,” he says with a tone that’s way too familiar.