Page 7 of The Breakup Artists

Some part of me is secretly delighted by August studying Romeo. It’s not that he doesn’t love a good rom-com or a dram-rom (???) in this case, but August was once supposed to play Romeo in our town theater. And when Des died, he gave up not only on the play but on acting in general. I never thought I’d see him pursue Romeo again in a million years. I imagine now that the sheer idea you could fall in love at first sight and then be willing to die for that love makes him queasy. I, on the other hand, am all for falling head over heels.

I clasp my hands together. “Oh. My. God. Please tell me you want to ditch ourPretty in Pinkstrategy in favor of Star-Crossed Lovers!”

His widening smile confirms it. “Ella’s mom told us that Ella’s making decisions based on her friends and boyfriend instead of her own best interests, right?” He pauses, and I stifle the urge to interrupt. “So, I’m thinking I come in as the Star-Crossed Lover”—he grimaces at the wordlover, and it makes me smile—“let’s say Star-Crossed Friend in this case. Basically, the exact opposite of her current relationship and social group. Make her feel like everythingshe’sinterested in is important and doable. A painter, not a football player. Someone who has everything but couldn’t care less about popularity. You get the idea.”

For a moment I hesitate, shocked that he’s bringing art into this job. He hasn’t so much as lifted a paintbrush since his sister died. No more line drawings in the margins of his notes, not so much as a doodle. A glimmer of hope zings through me and I want to comment, but I worry that if I make a big deal out of it, he’ll change his mind. So instead, I dig through my shoulder bag for my rainbow notebook that has all our Summer Love Inc. lists in it.

I land on the page I’m looking for. My feet inexplicably do a little two-step in happiness. We rarely use this move, but it’s always been one of my favorites.

STAR-CROSSED LOVERS—showing up as an opposite to the subject’s person’s current situation, letting him or her fall for your way of thinking and enthusiasm, entranced enough to change his or her life.

August pulls a pair of plaid shorts and a Johnny Cash T-shirt out of his closet and steps into the boat shoes I brought over. Preppy enough to be convincing and Johnny Cash enough to be cool.

Victory is mine! A Holden-shaped star is born.

I turn around and pet Swee’s oddly flat head while August throws on his clothes and pops the top off his deodorant. Not that he needs it. The temperature goes above eighty and I instantly smell like an onion, but he only ever gets a slight musky scent that makes him smell familiar instead of bad. It’s the most unfair thing ever.

“Good?” he says and holds out his arms for my evaluation. And as it turns out, he’s a thing of wonder. His shirt is faded in all the right ways, the red plaid of his shorts is showy, and his hair leans slightly to the messy side.

“You’resoready to spread the love,” I say.

“More like ready to crush a bad relationship.”

“Same same,” I say. “The ending of a bad relationship creates an opportunity for a good one. Forlove. Who knows, the next person Ella meets might be her soulmate.”

He snorts.

I point at him, and my neon bracelets give a satisfying jingle. “Don’t snort your disbelief at me, sir. I know you don’t believe in soulmates, and I’m here to tell you that you’re dead wrong.”

“I think what you mean to say is that you’re romanticizing—” he starts like he’s preparing for a dissertation.

I plug my ears in self-defense. “Nope, not letting you rain on love today. No room in my schedule.” I toss him the keys to my Jeep Wrangler. “You’re driving.”

I pick up my shoulder bag and head out of his bedroom door before he can respond. As I reach the top of the stairs, though, his footsteps cease in the hall behind me. I don’t need to look to know where—he’s by Des’s door.

I turn around to find his face blank, his enthusiasm from thirty seconds ago missing, replaced with a calm, unreadable force field that I call The Wall. No one gets past The Wall. Not even me on my best and brightest days. He wipes the dust off Des’s doorknob with his shirt, not opening his sister’s door, which (I’m guessing by the dust) hasn’t been disturbed in months, her things from two years ago frozen in time behind it and poised to evoke tears from whoever encounters them.

I move to August’s side, but he doesn’t look at me, just stares ahead silently thinking his piece. I sigh, not for me, but to shake him out of his statuesque position. He doesn’t acknowledge me, however, and the familiar ineffectual feeling of being trapped outside The Wall rises in my chest. I want to hug him and tell him that I miss Des, too. I want to yell at him for not trusting me with his hurt, cite my love for her and for him as good reasons. But instead, I stare unsure and tongue tied at the watercolor of Des’s name twisted with sunflowers that’s tacked to her door. August made it for her when he was eight. And I’m instantly mad at myself for not knowing how to talk to him about this and for not being better at weaving her into our everyday lives instead of uncomfortable isolated moments.

“Des, what are you going to do, I mean later, after you finish college?” I asked, gesturing at all the college brochures on her bedside table. “I feel like you’re going to be in charge of stuff, or people. Or both. Mayor, maybe?” I used the same sophisticated voice my dad always used when he asked me about my goals and attempted to stand taller than my twelve years to emphasize my maturity.

Des moved around her room, putting on a silver charm bracelet and a black choker. She paused in front of her vanity mirror, pink lipstick in hand, and turned to look at me. No matter what she was doing or how much she was hurrying, she always seemed to have time for me and August.

“Right idea about the helping-people thing, but politics aren’t for me,” she said, giving it some serious thought. “I was playing around with the idea of being a vet, but I think my heart is too breakable for that. You know what I’ve secretly always wanted to do, though?” She tilted her head like she was entrusting me with a hidden treasure. “Be a relationship detective.”

August looked up, considering the fanciful idea, probably specifically so he could ask practical questions about it. “Is that a job? How would it work?”

Yup, there he goes.

“See, that’s the awesome thing,” Des said. “It’s not a job. But it should be.”

“Let’s go,” August says quietly. It’s the kind of quiet that shuts you up, the kind that tells you his heart is breaking and that if you push, you’ll shatter it into a million pieces.

We didn’t talk about that conversation with Des when we started Summer Love, even though we both know this is about her and righting some inexplicable wrong of a boyfriend August can’t make peace with. I’ve avoided bringing it up since, nervous that if I shine a light on it before he’s ready, our company will disappear behind The Wall, too.

I follow August down the hall, looking momentarily over my shoulder.This one’s for you, Des, I think.

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