Page 37 of The Breakup Artists
I know I should leave, but I’m pissed—the sharp kind of anger that comes from disappointment and makes you want to punish the other person for getting your hopes up.
I cross my arms. “All right, Bentley, I changed my mind. Let’s see this game of yours.”
He scratches the back of his head. “That’s how you’re gonna—”
“Girls love this game, right?”
“No complaints yet,” he replies, but his tone is wary.
“Then show me what you got. I want to see what everyone fawns over.”
His eyes widen. “Now?”
“Right here. Right now.”
He sits up and pushes back his hair. We stare at each other for a long second, and he leans forward.Oh shit. Is he going to kiss me? He wouldn’t really, would he?
But then he stops.
“Is that it?” I laugh, mostly out of relief, but he stiffens like I slapped him.
He breaks eye contact. “Are we done here?”
“Yeah. Very done.”
He tries to hide his hurt by looking down.
And in the stillness of the sticky summer kitchen, I have a flash of regret, wondering how things got so heated and why I fought so hard.
My phone dings and a message from August lights up the screen.
August
In your living room. Where are you?
My heart jump-starts and I stand. My first thought is that I don’t want to have to explain to August why I’m here. My second thought is how awful that first thought was.
Bentley looks from my phone to my obvious flight response and then away.
August
I know you read that.
And so I leave. I sprint back across the grass feeling defeated and unsure, flinging open my porch door.
August smiles, which at the very least means he didn’t see me leave Bentley’s.
I kick off my wet flip-flops. “So what’s up?”
He laughs. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like your parents just caught you drinking?”
“Pshhhh,” I say but my heart isn’t in it. I brush back my wet hair that’s currently stuck to my cheeks.
He tilts his head. “Something I should know?”
