Page 82 of The Breakup Artists

“I... You know what?” She laughs. “I’m way too tipsy to be having this conversation.” And her nonanswer tells me everything I need to know.

My phone buzzes again, and this time I do look. A text from August, actually three texts from August, but not the simpleShould I join you guys?I thought he’d send. I make a fast excuse and bound up the stairs full speed.

And there in the hall, Justin and August face each other.

“I said lay off her,” August says, and my stomach drops directly out of my butt.

“Get the hell outta here, man,” Justin snaps, and I know that if August pushes, it’s going to get heated; maybe it already is. How much of this did I miss?

“If it’d make you stop manipulating your girlfriend, I’d be game,” August says, and if I thought I was shocked a second ago, I just reached a whole new level of heart attack.

He’s serious in a way that conveys strength. August is tall, and he has muscle tone from swimming, but he’s not a bench presser like Bentley or a football player like Justin. Yet in this moment, I’d bet on him without hesitation. The only thing is, I don’t want to bet on him. What the absolute hell is he doing?

Justin’s face goes red, but before he can respond, I swiftly step between them.

“There you guys are,” I say loud and cheery, like I missed the aggressive posturing. “Justin, not sure if it’s a big deal, but someone turned on your sprinklers, and people are surfing your backyard with chair cushions?”

Justin looks from me to August and back again, like he’s not sure he’s going to take the bait.

“Nowhere near the garden, though, right?” Ella says with a little too much emphasis, and I realize she’s throwing me a bone. “Justin, your mom will murder you.”

I pile on her concern. “I thought I saw someone tossing a piece of a rosebush, but not sure,” I reply, liberally making things up.

“You kidding me right now?” Justin says, aggravation dripping off his words, and I shake my head. He makes a move for the stairs, brushing past August and knocking him back with his shoulder. But when Ella follows him, August looks gutted.

I stare at August, conflicted over wanting to hit him myself and wanting to console him. I knew this case was complicated for him, but August has exceptional impulse control. If he jumped in, it means Justin was so bad he couldn’t brush it off. But that also means his emotions are wrapped up in this case way more than I previously thought. What exactly is going on with my best friend?

“How bad?” I ask when they’re well out of earshot.

“How bad what?” he says, certifiably miffed.

“You and Justin,” I try again, unable to erase the frustration that he seriously compromised our case.

“He was acting like a manipulative dick,” he says, and I know by his tone that he’s collapsing Justin with Kyle.

“So you went on the attack? You couldn’t find a way to distract Justin or defuse the situation? Because interfering with their relationship looks like you’re making a play for Ella. And after the night we’ve had, that’s basically the worst strategy you could employ.”

“It needed to be said,” he counters. “You didn’t see him.”

“I did see him on the boat, remember? You should have waited for me.”

“You didn’t respond to my text.”

I hesitate. “So what, you’re saying this is my fault?”

“No,” he says, but the tension is thick. “Are you saying it’s mine?”

We look at each other and the mutual blame is clear. August is too close to this one; he likes Ella too much. And if he doesn’t watch what he’s doing, this thing is going to blow up in our faces. Maybe it already has.

39

august

I messed up. Enormously. I don’t even have a good excuse for it besides the fact that my emotions got the better of me. And I don’t know what to make of that—caring about this case is making me bad at my job, making me less likely to help Ella, not more.

I push my hair back and rest my hand behind my head on my pillow.

No matter how I rationalize it, this case feels personal. And yes, part of that is because of Des, but part of it isn’t. I know Tiny thinks I have a crush. I don’t. A crush is a fluttery thing rife with quickening heartbeats and stolen glances. It’s something to celebrate when you accidentally brush kneecaps under a table and does no more damage to your heart when it fizzles out than a dramatic groan.