Page 118 of The Breakup Artists

Dad puts down his book.

Mom blows on her tea. “I think it’s time we had a talk. I’d like to hear that explanation now.”

I nod against my knees, considering where to begin and concluding the only way for them to understand is to start at the beginning.

“I didn’t know what to do after Des passed,” I start, telling them all about August shutting down and not being able to reach him, about my plan for Summer Love and what I thought it might do for him. How relieved I was when it worked and how dedicated I’ve been ever since.

“And you believe this business you started has been cathartic for him?” Mom asks, not dropping the parental tone that clearly distinguishes her as alpha.

“I really do,” I say. “And so many other people. We’ve helped a lot of families and friend groups. Until last night, that is... and well, you saw what happened.”

“Yes, we did. And so did all my colleagues,” Dad says.

“I’m really sorry, Dad,” I say a little pathetically. “I know I screwed up. I know how important last night was to you both.”

“There’s also the matter of the press,” he adds.

I hug my knees a little tighter. In the wake of everything that happened, I’d actually forgotten about the reporters who were there.

“I imagine we’ll be seeing coverage in the next couple hours, and after the scene you caused, I’d be shocked if your name wasn’t present,” he continues.

I wince. “But you’ll—”

“No,” he says. “You’re eighteen. I cannot retract your name.”

I yank my phone off the coffee table, about to do a panicked search, but Mom gives me a look that has me drop it again. Even if the press got pictures, there’s no way they could surmise anything about Summer Love. Right? Right. All they’d have seen is a fight and some drama—maybe one or two sentences on young love gone awry?

“And then there’s the lying,” Mom continues, and her words snap me back to the conversation.

“That’s not who we raised you to be,” Dad says.

This stings. Maybe because I don’t think of myself as a liar or because I convinced myself that my reasons outweighed my wrongdoing. “I know,” is all I say.

“Two years...” Mom says.

“How are we supposed to trust you going forward?” Dad asks.

And while maybe this is a legitimate question, it also upsets me. I said I was sorry. I feel terrible. But I’m still Valentine, their daughter; they know me. Before I can stop myself, I say, “The same way I trust you two even though you’ve clearly been keeping something from me.”

They momentarily glance at each other. The surprised look on their faces tells me I’m right, but the quiet that follows is way more uncomfortable than I’d have imagined.

Mom takes another sip of tea. But all she says is, “Okay.”

“Okay?” I repeat, looking from my mom to my dad, but he’s clearly deferring to her on this one.

“Your father and I will discuss your punishment,” Mom continues. “We’ll let you know what we think is appropriate.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Mom confirms.

“But what about—”

Dad cuts me off. “That’s not a discussion for today.”

I drop my knees from my chest, my bare feet hitting the soft carpet, feeling frustrated about my unknowable punishment, their nonanswer, and the five thousand messes in my life right now. “So I have to be honest, but you don’t?”

“Valentine,” Dad says, his tone a warning.