Page 21 of The Breakup Artists

Hearing his voice say August’s name only further solidifies the awfulness of the moment, and I consider regaling the grocery store with profanity that would make small children’s ears fall off. But no insult hurts enough. Instead, I settle on a lame and vague, “How about we don’t,” giving Kyle a back-off glare.

For a second Kyle looks like I slapped him. But he brushes it off with a shrug and an uneasy laugh. “I see your girlfriend’s still talking for you,” he says, something he used to playfully tease us about years ago.

But Kyle’s delivery is awkward, and August’s expression edges past angry, transforming his bad joke into a perceived insult. Kyle sighs and turns, breaking eye contact and disappearing around the corner.

My breath escapes in an audible whoosh.

But August remains uncomfortably still. He’s got that controlled angry look that makes me think if he moves at all he might charge after that douche like a raging bull.

“August?” I say, unsure.

His lips form a hard line, but he doesn’t look at me.

“August?” I try again, and when he still doesn’t respond, I begin to doubt myself. A zing of fear shoots through me that maybe he thinks I made it worse. “Wait... you’re not mad atme, are you?”

“It’s fine,” he lies.

“You know I was only trying to protect you, right?” But my words don’t sound supportive the way I intend; they sound cheap.

“I definitely don’t need you to protect me.”

His tone is accusatory, and I get my back up. “And what’s so bad about protecting my best friend?”

“Tiny,” he says, and the annoyance in his voice sends me into full-on defense mode.

“You weren’t saying anything,” I say quietly. “What was I supposed to do?”

He looks up at the ceiling, taking a breath. “I’m not going to fight with you in the middle of the grocery store.” He holds out the basket of junk food. “Take it.”

I shake my head. “Grocery store or not, you never want to talk about this. Ever. I’m your best friend and I have no idea what’s going on with you.”

“You’re right. I don’t want to talk to you about this, because you have no respect for boundaries.” His frustration tumbles out fast and harsh. “Not everything is about you.” He puts the basket on the floor and walks away.

I pull in my arms as though the gesture could protect me from the sting.

He keeps walking, and I don’t try to stop him.

11

august

I take the long way home, walking along the beach and kicking sand as I go. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, but it accomplishes nothing.

Kyle. Is. In. My. Effing. Town. Any moment I could turn a corner and find him wearing his cocky smirk on his stupid face—one that shows no obvious remorse.

My fists clench as the image of him standing in the supermarket aisle quickly morphs into the image of him standing next to the caution tape two years ago, cop car lights flashing across his face, my sister already dead. I glance over my shoulder, as if Kyle might have followed me to the beach. But everything is quiet. If Tiny drove past, I didn’t see her. I also wasn’t looking.

The calm water laps at the shore as I kick off my shoes. I pull my shirt over my head and take my wallet and phone out of my pocket, chucking them into the sand. I dive in, the cold water pricking my skin and shortening my breath. The rhythm of the ocean grabs me, pulling me along with it.

I swim. And I swim, and I swim, until my eyes burn from salt and my shoulders feel like jelly. But even here, in the one place my mind has always quieted—I spiral.

I’m not doing this with you, I think, adamant in my position, even though I’m not sure if “you” is referring to my thoughts, Kyle, or the drawing that’s formed on the dark water in front of me.

12

valentine

Rom-coms make everything better, I tell myself, feet up on the coffee table. But even drowning in ice cream and watchingBridesmaidsisn’t erasing the edgy feeling. This is why conflict is the worst—it nags at you until you resolve it.