Page 138 of The Breakup Artists

Relief washes over me. My mom—she went to bat for me. It gives me a strange feeling, one I haven’t had in so long that I’m not even sure what it is—reassurance maybe? A word I’ve used to describe Tiny’s life, but never my own.

It’s not because Tiny has money or a nice house. She has the type of security that tells her every morning when she wakes up and every night when she goes to sleep that she’s safe. That her mom isn’t going to forget to pay the electricity bill or leave foreclosure warnings taped to the door. That her parents won’t go to bed without knowing she ate dinner. That people are watching, caring. And because of this she owns a type of confidence I’ve never known.

I walk across my lawn toward Tiny’s porch, where she lounges on a love seat, goofy-grinning at her phone.

“Bentley?” I ask, even though I already know.

She puts her phone on the cushion next to her. “Well, look who’s up early.”

I step onto her porch, a cool breeze blowing my hair into my eyes. I push it back. “I had an idea—” I start, but Bentley’s screen door opens.

“Dudes!” he calls across the lawn. He wears plaid pajama pants and no shirt (I swear he doesn’t own any). “Big news. Dinner at my house tonight.”

“I feel like I’m having déjà vu—the bad kind,” I say to Tiny.

“Didn’t hear what you said, August,” Bentley continues. “But the answer is yes, there will be blow-up narwhals for swimming later.”

Tiny laughs and then looks at me. “Might be fun,” she says at a volume Bentley can’t hear, and while I have every intention of keeping my eye on him, I realize this is an olive branch.

“Sure,” I say, and her face lights up.

“We’ll be there!” she calls across the lawn.

Bentley pumps his fist in the air before his siblings call his name and he goes back inside. While I’m certain he’ll annoy me till the end of time, I also get that he matters to Tiny. And well, that’s important.

Tiny stares at me as I sit down in the cushioned armchair.

“What?”

“Nothing...” she replies, then changes her mind. “Actually, I was just thinking that in a weird way, Summer Love changed us.”

I nod because I feel it, too. Everything’s different. The tightly wound part of me that made me push her away, that made me snap for no reason or punch Kyle in the street, has unwound. And while I still think he sucks, I’m not consumed with blame anymore, a blame that made me hate him and myself.

She sits up, gripping the cushion on either side of her knees. “Okay, new happy August, how about we go grab some food?”

I hesitate.

“Before you object, consider the fact that hash browns are everything and that we don’t have any in my house.”

“It’s not that. It’s just...” I scratch the back of my neck. “I kinda have a plan to talk to Ella.”

“Really?” Tiny says, bouncing.

“Yeah, one that requires your help.”

She leans forward, conspiratorial. “Um, yes, obviously. Tell me everything.”

* * *

For the first time since I can remember, I don’t look away as we pass the street with the dented tree. Tiny doesn’t pretend not to notice. And an awkward silence doesn’t descend.

Instead, Tiny sings to music, arm hanging out the window, riding air waves as we head down the coastal street toward Ella’s town. I review my plan as we go, but the drive feels like it disappears in two seconds.

Tiny intermittently looks at me and bursts out laughing.

I give her a warning glare.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t believe this is happening.” She gestures at my outfit, which is a close approximation of Leonardo DiCaprio’s nineties chain mail knight getup inRomeo and Juliet, cobbled together from our past Halloween costumes and the local vintage store. We even managed shoulder armor and a fake sword. She snaps a picture on her phone. “Seriously, though. The most epic of epic ideas! You, my friend, are a genius. The student is the master. The August caterpillar is a butterfly. The—”