Page 126 of The Breakup Artists

My head whips up. “What?Shit, Tiny. Is she okay?”

“I don’t know,” she says, lifting her hands and dropping them back onto her comforter. “We’re waiting on tests? But something happened, something that made them worry. They haven’t told me what, and I’m too afraid to ask.” Her voice wobbles.

Without hesitation, I move toward her, pulling her into a hug. “Hey...” I say, as her chest heaves with emotion.

“And you’re not selfish, by the way,” she says through hitched breath. “You’re just really obtuse.”

“That, too,” I agree. When her breathing slows, I add, “Tell me about your mom.”

And she does. She tells me how worried she is and about the arguments she’s overheard this past week, how her house doesn’t feel like her house and her parents don’t feel like her parents. I listen, giving her what advice I can and reassuring her that I’ll be here for it, good or bad.

Then she asks me why I’ve been so distant. In turn I tell her about my failed attempt to talk to Ella and about my dad’s surprise visit.

“My god, August. I had no idea.”

I shake my head. “It is what it is.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“My dad? Nah,” I say. “He’s not coming back.”

“You mean ever?”

“Not if he has a choice,” I say, and Tiny frowns.

She opens her mouth to ask another question but hesitates.

We’re both quiet for a long moment, and then she shakes her head, like she’s decided not to pursue that conversation. “So you kissed Ella.”

Hearing it out loud makes my heart sink and my chest ache. “No. But I wanted to.”

She waits.

“I just...” I start, but the words don’t come.

“Have feelings for her?” she suggests.

I look away, surprised by how much it stings. “I should have told you about the almost kiss.”

“Yeah, you should have,” she says. “You let me get blindsided by Mr. Becker.”

I sigh, feeling even guiltier.

Before I figure out what to say, though, she sighs, too. “But I guess where you undershared, I overshared. I shouldn’t have told Bentley about you liking Ella. And I’m sorry he used it against you like that.”

My eyes meet hers, and I’m grateful for the out. “Thanks,” is all I say, and she seems to understand me. I change the subject. “Have you seen all the Summer Love emails?”

She tucks her hair behind her ears. “Giant mess.”

We share a look, and even in the dim light, it’s obvious we both know that it’s over. That Summer Love is irrevocably broken, but neither of us says it.

After another few seconds of heavy silence, she shakes her hands out like she’s tossing off the melancholy. “You know what we need? We need milkshakes and french fries from Bob’s.”

I glance at the clock on her nightstand. “It’s one in the morning.”

“And they’re open until two, so it all works out.” She slides off her bed, grabbing a sweatshirt and throwing it over her pajamas.

I open my mouth to argue but change my mind. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do it.”