Page 18 of The Breakup Artists

Everyone around us hollers and laughs. And with a withering look, Ella pushes herself out of the pool, stomping back to her chair, where Justin already sits, drinking her lemonade. He grabs her and pulls her down, giving her a big kiss.

“There she is... my favorite loveable Asshole,” Justin says.

Amber snorts. “Now there’s a Valentine’s Day card.”

And so, the public shaming commences. Amber (the Queen) makes me bring her and Leah fresh towels and snacks and has me reapply her suntan lotion (twice), bowing to her and giving her a compliment every time I approach. And Justin (the Duke) makes me his beer bitch and has me replenish all his games of flip cup while wearing a bra on my head. But as the hour winds down, just as I suspected, everyone knows who I am. And I’m in. An accepted part of the group. Accepted by everyone except the one person who matters, that is.

“Okay, Assholes!” Amber exclaims, looking happily at me and Ella. “Time to document your suckage!”

I glance at Ella, who sports boxer briefs around her forehead, but she doesn’t meet my eyes. Tiny, however, is looking from me to Ella and back again from across the deck.

Amber waves Ella and me to her lawn chair where she’s been holding court, and as I walk up, Ella turns away from me, body language that suggests I’m even worse off than I was after the coffee incident, which I honestly didn’t think was possible.

“For my last decree,” Amber announces, looking at us like we’re her favorite snack, “I’m going to take a picture of you two beauties, and you’re going to post it to your IG accounts, where youcannotdelete it for at least twenty-four hours.”

Ella looks like she’s going to murder Amber or me or both of us.

“I don’t have one,” I say.

Tiny subtly clocks our conversation from her spot near the snack table.

“Really?” Amber says, surprised. “Okay, then post on whatever social account you have.”

“I don’t have any,” I say and wait for her reaction. This happens on every case.

Amber’s eyes nearly detach from her head. “What?Like, none? Nada? Nothing?”

“Nothing,” I confirm.

Leah arches an eyebrow like I just became more interesting in her estimation. “I don’t know if I think that’s cool or seriously questionable.”

“Maybe another punishment?” I suggest and Ella looks hopeful.

“Mmmm, no can do. A pictureneedsto happen,” Amber says, assessing us. After a long pause, her eyes light up. “Wait...”

She grabs her purse and yanks out bright-red lip gloss. She motions for me to bend down. “Since you’re not posting, you need something... extra.” She doesn’t get one smear in before I know exactly what’s happening. Not only will I appear on Ella’s IG with a bra on my head, but I’ll also have a sparkly penis on my forehead.

“Now get together,” Amber says, admiring her handiwork and positioning her phone.

Ella crosses her arms, and I do the only thing I can—I smile.

Leah checks her watch, just as Amber snaps her first couple of pictures, shooting Ella a sympathetic look. “Hour’s up, Amber.”

Amber huffs like Leah’s ruining it. “Fine. But I better see that picture up pronto, El,” she says and then shouts, “Rematch!”

Justin echoes Amber, and Ella looks relieved that our servitude is finally over. She doesn’t make a move to reenter the competition, and neither do I.

As people line up by the pool, I pull the bra off my head and offer it to Ella. “Yours?”

She shakes her head, lips pursed, and turns away.

I swipe a napkin from Amber’s snack spread and wipe my forehead. “Might as well laugh it off, Scorpio. We all fall from grace once in a while.”

She doesn’t look at me.

“And well, it’s your own fault,” I add, because I’m once again in the undesirable position of having to needle her to get a response.

Her head whips in my direction. “Myfault? This is one thousand percentyourfault. I certainly didn’t need you to let me win.”