Page 122 of The Breakup Artists

I physically wince. “Bentley, no,” I say, my tone a warning. I don’t care who’s right and wrong here, or that I’m currently annoyed with August—he can’t take a blow like that right now. “That’s so out of line.”

Bentley looks from August to me and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I came over here to ask him if he was okay. I can’t win with you two.”

And for a second, I feel bad.

August scoffs. “Why don’t you tell Tiny the truth, Bentley: you came over here to find out if I’d seen Cassie’s text and if I was going to out you.”

“Can someone please tell me what this Cassie thing is about?” I ask, annoyed in every way possible. Bentley isn’t the only one who feels like he can’t win here.

“It’s nothing,” Bentley says, which only makes me more uneasy.

“August?” I ask, which earns me a disappointed look from Bentley, but I don’t have time for a long gentle discussion. I’m surprised Dad hasn’t come out here already.

August pinches the bridge of his nose. “There was a text on his lock screen from Cassie asking if they were still meeting up. Followed by a heart and a kissy face.”

I pull my shoulders up and in, trying to keep the storm of worry at bay. I turn to Bentley for an explanation, but he doesn’t offer one.

“Did you... meet up with her?” I ask, unsure.

He hesitates, his jaw tight. “Yes.”

His answer is like a beesting, fast and sharp and sure to hurt more later.

We all stand there, suspended in this long awful second.

Bentley turns on August, blame etched in his eyebrows. “This is when you walk away and let me clean up your mess.”

“My mess?” August snaps. “Try again. You don’t deserve Tiny, never will. Better to just bow out now.”

“Coming from a guy who gets paid to mess with people’s love lives?” Bentley fires back. “I mean, I might sometimes be an ass, but the one thing I never am is for sale.”

“Right,” August says. “You screw people over for free.”

I hear their words, but my reaction is muddled and slow.

Bentley clenches his hands. “That’s it—” he starts, but he’s cut off. By my dad.

“Enough,” Dad says from the porch, not even loudly, but in that dad tone that makes everyone freeze. “Bentley—your yard. August—yours. Valentine—insidenow.”

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august

I slam my back door shut, hoping Tiny finally tells Bentley to eff off. But I stop the instant I step inside. Because there, sitting at the kitchen table, is my father and I’m...

Blindsided.

My throat goes dry and my vision wavers. I consider walking right back out.

“Thanks, Ruth,” my dad says as Mom hands him a cup of coffee. “It’s good to see you, August.”

Good to see me, he says?

Whatever anger I felt toward Bentley amplifies by a thousand. But it’s that low-burning anger, the kind that you can’t let out because if you do, you’ll destroy everyone and everything in the radius around you.

“Mom?” I say, looking for an explanation.

She leans back against the kitchen counter, her hair neatly wound on top of her head, her favorite floor-length denim shirtdress pressed with a popped collar, and lipstick—she never wears makeup. While I understand the desire to look good in this particular scenario, whatever that is, it only agitates me more.