Page 83 of The Breakup Artists

But what does it mean when you want to be better for someone? When you want to share your thoughts and trudge through difficult conversations. What does it mean when you share her hurts and want her to share your joys?

Shit.

I once again look at my text conversation with Ella that has abruptly stopped, feeling the tightness in my chest increase. I might have broken this. For good. And I know that texting her now is the worst of moves. One hand overplayed is all it takes to destroy something as fragile as a new friendship.

Friendship. Is that what Ella and I have? Is she my friend? I rub my hands over my face, knowing I have a problem here and not wanting to look at it.

I sigh at the stack of books on my bedside table and my old-man cat tucked into my arm. I have everything I need to be happy. And yet... today blows.

Fine with all the things I can’t control... just trying to stuff them in a box and shove them to the back of my mind because I think I’ll be more fine with them there.

40

valentine

August brooding over a girl is super weird, but August brooding over a girl who’s the subject of the biggest case we’ve ever had makes me nervous. I just don’t know what he thinks is going to happen. He can’t actually be with Ella. She believes he’s a preppy painter named Holden whose mom is currently on a yacht. And there’s no way for him to backstep from that without telling her about our job—which is guaranteed to make her never talk to him again.

And speaking of brooding people, I look at my text chain with Bentley, which is currently barren. I sent him a message during the party last night and got exactly nothing in response. I tap my purple gel pen against my mouth and then shove it in the spiral notebook binding. I slide off my bed, heading for the window, but think better of it and go downstairs instead.

I make my way into the kitchen, where the big picture window provides the perfect view of his house. The twins are swimming and his mom’s watching them, but Bentley’s nowhere in sight. In fact, his truck isn’t in the driveway. And then I remember it’s Sunday.

I startle. “Again?I don’t stare at Bentley’s house.”

“Oh, I see, you’re just doing your part as the friendly neighborhood watch,” she says with a grin. “My mistake.”

I give her a look from under my eyebrows. “You definitely don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she doesn’t stop grinning.

“What doesn’t your mother know?” Dad asks, joining us in the kitchen.

“Nothing,” I say.

He looks from me to Mom and back again. “Ah, the whole neighbor crush issue I’m not supposed to bring up.”

“Prem,” Mom says at the same time I say, “Dad!”

He lifts his hands in the air, like he’s an innocent bystander. “Just trying to access the refrigerator. Iced tea, anyone?”

I throw an accusatory glance at Mom.

She pulls two glasses down from the cupboard and places them on the counter for my dad to fill, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “We’re your parents, sweetie. We do talk about you from time to time.”

Dad grabs the glass pitcher from the refrigerator and goofy-grins at Mom. Gross. What the heck is going on with these two? Hot, cold, hot again.

“But as long as we’re on the subject, I’m not sure that Bentley guy isn’t a bit of a... what do you kids call it, a ladies’ man?” Dad says, using the most cringeworthy terminology possible.

“Okay, no. We’re not doing this,” I reply, wondering if the embarrassment from your dad commenting on your love life can actually kill a person. “We can talk about anything else. Literally anything.”

Mom looks amused, but Dad looks like he’s not sure he doesn’t want to continue and thoroughly scar me for life.

“You can invite him to Dad’s party on Sunday,” Mom suggests. “I bet he’d look good all spiffed up.”

For a split second I get excited by the idea, but my next thought goes to August, who I’ve yet to confess to. I missed my chance last night with the blowup.

“Actually, yeah, maybe that’d be nice,” I say.

My parents retreat into the living room with their iced teas, and I run upstairs to change, energized by the idea of using the party as a peace offering. I don’t bother to text Bentley, because on a beautiful day like this, I know exactly where he’ll be.

* * *