Page 6 of The Breakup Artists

“Yo, Sharma,” he replies, calling me by my last name like I’m one of his football buddies. “I know.”

I smile even though what he said wasn’t witty. He pauses his workout to drink water and wipe his forehead with what I suspect is his mother’s dish towel, given that it says something about wine and chocolate being major food groups.

“Don’t pretty yourself up for me,” I say, weirdly amused by his towel choice. “I just wanted to ask you before I went ahead and stole your newspaper.”

Bentley laughs. “Why ask if you’re stealing?”

I shrug. “I’m a polite thief?” I clock his question as agreement and take a step toward August’s house.

“That’s it?” he says, the disappointment obvious on his well-proportioned face. “No pointless small talk while you secretly stare at my six-pack? I feel so used.”

I laugh, not bothering to point out that employing small talk as a front to stare at his body would be the definition of using him. “Send me a shirtless selfie,” I say as I backstep across his yard. “I’ll show it to all my friends and we’ll giggle behind our hands.”

Bentley sighs dramatically. “If only.” He gets back into push-up position and I turn.

“Will I see you at the cookout later?” he yells as I walk away.

“Maybe,” I answer over my shoulder, although I doubt there will be time with this new Ella case, and even if there is, I double doubt I could convince August to go.

“ThenmaybeI’m excited,” he replies. This is Bentley’s thing—charm, charm, charm, date for two weeks in a showy PDA way that makes everyone uncomfortable, and then on to the next relationship. Good at the wooing, bad at the commitment. Bentley and I have been doing this dance for four years now, but only recently he’s been more enthusiastic about it, like he’s made a bet with himself that he can get me to kiss him before I leave for college. And honestly, I’m not against it. Guys like Bentley are basically made for summer kissing. Not that I’d ever admit that to August, because he’d probably turn purple and stop breathing.

I climb the ladder secured to the side of August’s house and push open his second-story window with one hand. I step easily into his bedroom, where I find him with his head shoved under his pillow, arguing with his ancient cat, who has one gray paw on August’s back, claws extended. I drop my shoulder bag on the hardwood floor, feeling the familiar sense of accomplishment of an awesome entrance.

The ladder wasn’t exactly my idea, but it was a stroke of brilliance nonetheless. The summer before seventh grade we marathoned all six seasons ofDawson’s Creek, and I was totally inspired.

“That’s us,” I said, sprawled across August’s bed, admittedly getting popcorn on his comforter.“And if you sprinkle in some summer tourists and some Massachusetts accents, that’s our town. Can you even believe how weird this is? Oh my god. What if there are lots of us, August? Lots of smart, beautiful, level-headed girls hanging out with clueless dork dudes.”

And despite the fact that this is New England and the weather is wicked unpredictable, I could not be talked out of it. I even convinced August’s artsy mom to build me a custom ladder that connects to the house, because while I’m not afraid of heights, I’m also not an idiot. And I’ve been enthusiastically using it ever since, much to August’s disappointment.

August doesn’t say hi. Instead, he mumbles something about the unfairness of mornings.

“Want me to feed him?” I offer, nodding at his cat, Swee, even though he can’t see the gesture because he’s still face down.

He groans, removing the pillow from his head. “Are you strategizing with my cat to wake me up?”

“Areyoustrategizing to win the grumpiest-sloth award? It’s ten thirty.”

He runs his hands over his face and glances groggily around his room. Where my bedroom is all light colors and new furniture, his is dark blues, dark wood, and antique lamps. Papers lie haphazardly across his desk, where he undoubtedly stayed up half the night researching Ella. His bookshelf is overflowing with nonfiction. And his favorite charcoal-gray grandpa sweater with the wooden buttons is draped across his desk chair.

“Exactly. And we don’t need to be at the coffee shop until noon, sooo—” He stops abruptly as I head for his closet. “Tiny,” he says like I should know better.

I look at him. He looks at me. A standoff.

He raises a warning eyebrow.

“Fine,” I say with a long exhale, lifting my hands in surrender. “Pick out your own clothes. See if I care.” I pause, unable to restrain myself from commenting further. “Far be it for me to stand in the way of you and your three favorite James Dean outfits, but I think you’re gonna need something more Holden-ish for this one.” I pull a pair of boat shoes (swiped from Dad’s closet) from my bag and toss them on August’s floor with a satisfying thud.

He eyes them wearily as he pops into his bathroom to open a can of cat food for Swee. He used to feed him downstairs in the kitchen, but when you have a creaky twenty-year-old cat whose life is built around lounging in bed, it’s easier to have food nearby. And the sacrifice of having a stinky bathroom because it makes his cat happy is a perfect example of why we’re best friends. He likes to pretend that he’s so rational and unflappable, but he’s actually the most sensitive and thoughtful person I know.

“I was doing some Ella research last night—” he says over his shoulder.

“Leonardo DiCaprio,” I squeal, too excited to let him finish his sentence.

“I’d be weirded out that you knew where my thought was going, but then I remembered you have access to my window,” he says with a sly grin.

I roll my eyes, not bothering to tell him that I don’t need to spy to be three steps ahead. We both know I’m the mastermind in this friendship.

“So anyway,” he continues, heading toward his closet. “I rewatchedRomeo and Juliet.”