Page 16 of The Breakup Artists

She smiles a tired smile. “I’ll call, honey. Stop worrying.” Then she sets herself to unpacking the groceries and humming, probably thinking about the sunroom we’ll never have.

8

valentine

Ella’s house is giant. Not in the way August thinks mine is—a remodeled middle-class home with an open floor plan and updated appliances—hers is a legit mansion. The kind of place where you gulp when you see it and worry about breaking something even when you’re sitting still on the couch.

We share a wide-eyed glance as we walk down the long driveway made of stone squares, outlined by a lattice of grass. I bet someone’s sole employment is making sure the thin lines of driveway grass are trimmed to perfection, not to mention the potted trees that are shaped like bubbles and have more precise haircuts than I do.

August and I walk around the looped end of the driveway to the front door, which is currently cracked open. We slip inside and follow the sound of voices and music to an enormous circular living room with teens sprawled on oversized couches. The far wall is made entirely of glass, overlooking the back deck and giant pool.

“Damn,” is all he says, and I couldn’t agree more. Neither of us has ever been in a house like this; we don’t even know anyone who knows anyone who has a house like this. It’s packed with Ella’s friends, all busy socializing or eating.

“Pretty nice, huh?” Justin says, walking up behind us, taking a swig out of a glass soda bottle.

“Just about the size of my family’s guesthouse, maybe alittlesmaller,” I say.

He laughs at my absurd joke. “In that case, remind me to hit you up for our next party.”

“Done. Just call my assistant.” I’ve always found this type of thing easy, sliding into conversations and making people feel at ease.

Justin smiles. “Come on. I’ll give you guys a quick tour.”

I don’t need to look at August to know what he’s going to say next.

“Bathroom?” August asks, and there is an almost indiscernible tightness in his voice, something no one but me would notice. Justin, Kyle. Kyle, Justin. We haven’t discussed it, but we both know the other knows, the same way I imagine twins have an instinct when the other is in trouble.

Justin points to two different restroom options.

“Thanks, man,” August says and he’s off, shoulders back and head high with another paint-splattered T-shirt on, once again transformed into Holden.

“Good,” Justin says, assessing me as August disappears around a corner. “You wore your bathing suit.” He looks briefly at my chest and then smiles like he approves.

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Too bad you didn’t wear your tact.”

For a second his eyes widen. Then he laughs. “You’re funny.”

“I know.”And you’re gross, I think.

9

august

The noise of socializing boosts my confidence with its familiarity— different town, different social strata, same party. I walk through the open glass doors onto the deck, where Ella, Amber, and Leah sunbathe on lawn chairs, surrounded by their friends. I swipe a bottle of water from a cooler and pick a spot on the opposite side of the pool, slipping on my sunglasses and plopping down in a chair.

Ella notices but deliberately ignores me. Even though the summer just started, she’s already tan, tanner than me, and I’m outside every day. I sip my water, taking note of the guy floating in a giant seahorse and the girl making a show of flipping off the diving board. And I wait.

It only takes a handful of minutes before Justin appears poolside and launches himself smack onto the occupied seahorse, sinking the dude floating in it. Where there’s a pool and a bunch of people trying to look cool, competition is inevitable—it’s basically a golden rule, and one that helps me do my job.

The seahorse guy rights himself in the water, laughing and diving onto Justin’s head. And they wrestle, catching the attention of everyone nearby. But pool fights are hard to sustain, and so after a minute, they catch their breath and pick another way to spar.

“Game time!” Justin declares over the music. He climbs out of the pool, wiping his face on the towel at the end of Ella’s lawn chair. “Should we bump it up a notch?”

“Bump. It. Up,” Amber replies, egging him on and lifting her palms in the air.

I spot Tiny chatting up a group at the other end of the deck.

“Asshole,” Justin declares, which earns him laughs. “A friendly game of Asshole, but in the water.”