Page 61 of The Breakup Artists

“Thanks, Des,” I said and meant it in a larger sense than just popcorn. It mattered that she went out of her way to pay attention to my life, to care about the little things like movie night. I knew I could always count on her.

“You got it,” she said, pleased that we were pleased. “Try not to eat yourselves into a sugar coma.”

“Mmmm,” Tiny said, already tearing into her popcorn, even though we hadn’t decided the movie yet. Des laughed.

Since then, Des’s door has become a barrier that I don’t know how to pass, a reminder of those weeks when I lost control. I clean the doorknob with the hem of my shirt, even though it doesn’t need it.

Now that I’m not caught up in the moment with Ella, I can’t believe I agreed to teach her how to paint. And as if scenting my anxiety over it like a shark smells blood, my mind mocks my promise to give up art and begins to sketch. It happens so fast that I have no chance of stopping it.

The downstairs screen door snaps shut and I turn, relieved to look away from Des’s door. “Mom?” I call and check my phone. It’s 11:47 a.m. and way too early for her to be back from work at the Kellermans’.

I head downstairs, part of me hoping she quit and part of me worried she got fired.

“August?” she says in her painter’s overalls as I emerge from the staircase. “Can’t stay. Just popping in for supplies.”

“Oh,” I reply, both parts of me disappointed.

She opens the closet door and leans in. I move around her, heading into the kitchen. I grab an old diner-style mug from the cupboard and pour the last of the lukewarm coffee.

Mom pulls out a tarp. “Did you know that Kyle’s home for the summer?” She looks at me with uncertainty.

I freeze, midway to my first sip of coffee. “Uh, yeah.”

“You didn’t say anything when I told you about the job.”

I put my coffee mug down on the counter, regretting coming in here.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she adds, her forehead scrunching with doubt.

We never talk about Kyle; it’s one of the many unspoken agreements we’ve made in the past two years. I don’t bring up the year she spent closed up in her room after my dad left, and she doesn’t bring up Kyle or anything related to the accident.

She stands there with arms full of tarp, waiting for me to say something, and closes the closet door with a backward shove of her foot.

“No,” I say, my voice definitive where hers is indecisive.

“August,” she says, gently.

“No time, Mom.” I abandon my coffee and head for the screen door. “Tiny and I have work.”

I leave before she can respond.

31

valentine

I lie on my couch, one leg tucked under a throw blanket and a half-read book open on my chest, staring out the window at Bentley’s house. It’s not like I haven’t had my fair share of good kisses. We’ve gone to an absurd number of parties since we’ve started Summer Love, and as August puts it, I’m a magnet for a particular type of sensitive bro. Not long-term-boyfriend material, just the type to have fun with. But I rarely get involved with anyone in our town. It’s too small and incestuous. No matter who you choose, you’re bound to know someone they dated. And Bentley? I’d argue he’s dated most of our school. And it shows in his kissing—it was so good that I’m still thinking about it, haven’t stopped really. I mean, it’s not a big deal. He’s hot. He’s charming. He’s the perfect candidate for a summer fling.Simple. Meaningless. Fun...I touch my lips.Sweet. Knee weakening. Stomach dropping. Everything that I want to do again. Ahhhh! No! Damn it, brain, get ahold of yourself.

August opens my door, and I sit up so fast you’d think he caught me half-naked. But he’s too preoccupied to notice my reaction; he looks like he’s seriously miffed.

“Can I borrow your keys?” he asks, his eyes far away, thinking about some other conversation. And considering he just came from his house and I’m his only friend, I’m guessing it was with his mom.

I sit up on the couch. “Well, hello to you, too.”

“Sorry,” he says, his head momentarily dipping toward his shoes. He doesn’t offer an explanation, and I don’t ask for one.

He sighs, shrugging off whatever was on his mind.

“So your crêpe date with Ella... fill me in.” Even though we talked about it by text, we didn’t hash it out in person because after my sunset walk with Bentley, Mom and I ordered Thai and watched cheesy romance movies while Dad worked at the kitchen table finalizing details for his big summer work party.