Page 87 of The Breakup Artists

I stare at the Kellermans’ front door and weigh my options. There’s no way of knowing if Kyle’s home, if he has some dumb sports car in an obnoxious color parked in the bay of their garage. A car like the one he took Tiny and me for a drive in on my fifteenth birthday, doing donuts in the supermarket parking lot while we laughed in the back seat and clung to the upholstery. A car like the one he used to race on the dead-end street by the town soccer fields. A car like the one that killed my sister.

I hit the steering wheel as a punctuation of frustration and make the flash decision to get out. I walk brusquely up the too-long brick walkway, my heart pounding so hard that I pull at my shirt. Three steps up the porch and I place the brushes on a small table with a clunk. I specifically don’t look in the windows.

But just as I turn around, a car pulls in the driveway right near where I’m parked. And as a pile-on to my already crap day, Kyle gets out of the passenger door.

Panic and anger surge so violently inside my chest that I almost miss the bottom porch step, my footing momentarily faltering.

Don’t look at him, I command myself.

I pick up my pace, but it’s not fast enough. Kyle’s already said goodbye to his friend and is stepping onto the same brick pathway I’m on.

I look past him at my dinged-up station wagon, with every intention of ignoring the fact that he exists. But he stops in his tracks, right in front of my car.

“August?” he says, my name sounding foreign and uncomfortable in his mouth.

I held on to the caution tape so hard that my nonexistent fingernails cut straight into the palms of my hands. I stared unmoving at the bright-yellow car, whose hood was crushed against a tree in front of the town soccer field, the mangled doors flung open and the windows shattered. I didn’t know how long I’d been here. Hours? Minutes?

“August,” Kyle said, using my actual name, something I couldn’t ever remember him doing—he always called me “Little Mariani.” His voice was drained and heavy. “August, I’m sorry,” he said. And I instantly hated him for it. For using my name. For owning that car. For existing.

He touched my shoulder, and then I did move. What gave him the right?

“Listen,” he tried again, and I could hear the admission of guilt in his tone. “I just wanted to say—”

“No.” My voice was quiet but weighted, stopping him midsentence before he could give me an apology I wouldn’t accept. “I heard you. Earlier. In Des’s room. I know this is your fault.”

He swallowed and looked away, but before he could get the nerve to speak again, Tiny was there, grabbing me in a forceful hug.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, August. I’m so sorry,” she said on repeat between sobs, pressing her wet cheek against my shirt.

But I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak. And I definitely didn’t accept. I was frozen in place, all the warmth of Des sucked out of the world. The wrongness of it pulsing through me and upending the idea that things would ever be okay.

Suddenly I’m sweating and angry, like a hose-drenched yellow jacket. Everything I’ve ever wanted to say to him explodes in my thoughts. My eyes flit up, but I force them down again, my hands clenching.

I walk around Kyle, but as I do, he does the unthinkable. He says my name and grabs my arm. My anger buzzes so loudly that I see spots.

Before I can make a decision, before I can tell him that he’s not worth it, I find myself turning to face him, my shoulders tense, my already fisted hand moving through the air. And I deck him. Right in the face. Hard.

He stumbles backward, his hand moving to his cheek. “What the shit, dude?” he says, staring at me from his unpunched eye.

For a split second, I feel better. Good. He deserves it and so much more. But the moment that follows isn’t good. I feel dumb and vulnerable, like I’m standing at that caution tape all over again, watching them wheel away my sister in a body bag, helpless as the most important person in my world disappears.

I look away from Kyle, my cheeks hot and my eyes stinging, and I get in my car. I drive all the way home with my hands strangling the steering wheel, my breath caught high in my throat.

“Stop,” I command my brain. “Leave me the hell alone!”

But it’s no use. A sketch appears and with it comes memories—not anger and destruction, something I could vent over, but gentle things: the rosebush Des planted with Mom when I was born, the sound of her laugh, the salt water dripping off her hair on a hot summer evening by the dock. My chest aches, and my lips part with words I don’t know how to speak.I need you, Des. How could you leave me?

42

valentine

I shake out my hair, wet and smelling of yummy jasmine shampoo from my shower, as I walk across my lawn in the dimming light. I’ve left August alone for long enough to vent over what happened last night. It’s time to get back to work. And well, it’s time to tell him about Bentley before I lose my nerve. I’m still riding high on the feeling of Bentley’s arm wrapped around my stomach on the beach blanket, and I’m hoping that it’ll inspire bravery.

August’s window is open and I slide through. He’s hunched over his desk, buried in a pile of books, and when I say “Hey,” he says it back without pulling his face from his reading.

I stare at him for a moment, considering my approach. August reading books isn’t unusual, but August surrounded by so many books that he could build a fort? Definitely disagreeable. Part of me wonders if I should wait, but I’ll be running the risk of August finding out on his own, making the whole thing exponentially worse and convincing Bentley that I actually am embarrassed of him.

Eff it. “I like Bentley.”