Page 25 of The Breakup Artists

He laughs. And just like that, we both let it go.

“Ella texted me,” he says, sipping his coffee.

I perk up. “Wait, really? What did she say? Good? Bad? Had to be good or she wouldn’t have texted, right?”

He hands me his phone, and I smile as I read through their banter. That is, until I get to August asking her if she ever freezes. My head shoots up. August is being real with a girl he doesn’t know about his heavily guarded emotions? He’s barely even real with me about them.

“Keep reading,” he says as though he knows what I’m thinking.

I give him a questioning look but return to the phone. And then I see it—Amber.

“I swear this Star-Crossed Lovers move has some bad luck,” I say and run through what I know about Amber, relaying the highlights. “Okay, Amber. Bossy, leader of Ella’s friend group, vicious when she wants to be, adored, broke up with her boyfriend Derek a couple of months ago.”

“He’s still in her photos,” August says. “And he was at Ella’s party.”

I nod approvingly; August doesn’t make a show of it, but he notices every detail. “True. Which means they’ve moved on to friends, leaving her single and available. She’s like a shark, that one. ‘Sharky’ actually wouldn’t be a bad nickname for her.”

August takes his phone back and types into his chat with Ella:Cool if I bring my cousin?

He looks at me for approval, and when I nod, he presses send. And even though it’s a little gesture, it makes me feel good. He waited for me to make this decision. We’re in this together.

I hand him my phone, open to Ella’s dad’s message. “Also, this.”

He reads it and looks up. “Quick call?” he suggests, even though I know he doesn’t like talking to parents or friends, hence the fact that they always communicate with me.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. We just reassure him and that’s that.”

“Agreed,” he says, and I press call.

But as I do, August’s phone dings and he holds it up. It’s Ella telling him that the party isn’t in a backyard or on some beach. It’s on a boat.In an hour.And if we’re late, it’ll leave without us. In unison we jump up, August sloshing his coffee.

“Went to voicemail,” I say and press end. “Meet you by the Jeep in twenty minutes?”

“Yup,” he says, and we both head toward our houses. But as I step onto my porch, I spot Bentley through his kitchen window and hesitate, remembering how I bit his head off.

Quick detour, I tell myself and jog over to his house. I knock three times on the screen door.

“Come in!” he yells, and I do.

The door opens into his living room, which is scattered with toys belonging to his seven-year-old twin brother and sister. The blue couches are faded, and the carpet is a little frayed but clean. I make my way into the kitchen, only to find Bentley wearing an apron and cooking a big frying pan of cheesy eggs.

His eyes double in size when he sees me. “Valentine? What are you... I mean... hey.”

“Hey,” I say, now feeling flustered that he’s flustered, and possibly like I’ve intruded. “I just—”

But before I can get a word out, the twins run in, smacking each other with long cardboard tubes.

“Huuungry,” his little brother, Trevor, says.

“Double hungry,” Maisie agrees.

I stare at the three of them. Bentley cooks? I know his mom works a lot, that her car is rarely in the driveway, but I just never thought of him as the apron-wearing, babysitting type. It’s about as far from his cultivated cool persona as you can get.

“I came to apologize for barking at you yesterday,” I say.

He shrugs. “We all have bad days. Don’t worry about it.”

Because he’s so decent about it, and because I’m weirdly intrigued by his domesticity, I add, “Maybe I can make it up to you. Take you to lunch?”