FORTY
I am breaking up with you today.
I am breaking up with you even if you start to cry and your electric-blue eyes turn extra bright, your eyelashes heavy with tears. I am breaking up with you even though I will never again see you onstage, your lips kissing the mic, and think, That’s my boyfriend.
Pull out every trick you have, every sweet word, every wounded glance. Throw me your best excuse, your wildest promise—throw it hard so I can knock it out of the park. Give me everything you’ve got. It won’t be enough to keep me by your side.
“Five words, sweetie. Just five words. You can do it,” Nat whispers. I’m. Breaking. Up. With. You.
She grabs me in a fierce hug, then goes to hide with Lys behind a nearby SUV in the Roosevelt parking lot. She’s promised to break up with you for me if I don’t do it. I gave her permission to drag me away from you, if need be. She would do it, too.
I’ve asked you to meet me in the high school parking lot because it’s a public place. Because I don’t trust you anymore. I’m scared to be alone with you.
I’m breaking up with you right before graduation. Because I won’t let you ruin this day. I won’t let you take one more thing away from me.
I’m going to spend the whole summer with the friends I’ve neglected for the past year. And then I’m going to go to a college far away. And I’m going to find someone I don’t want to break up with.
As soon as we’re over, I’m going to call your mom. If you try to hurt yourself, that’s on you. I can’t carry you anymore. I won’t.
You’re walking toward me now, fedora pulled low over your eyes. You smile when you see me and dance a little jig because this is the day we’ve been waiting for. But I’m going to make it the worst day of your life. I’m sick with nerves. For once, there isn’t a part of me that still loves you, that still lifts a little when you walk toward me with that slacker shuffle. I want nothing to do with you ever again.
“How’s my girl?” you say when you reach me.
I feel the cracks spreading through my heart as it starts to break. You’re wearing the tie I bought you for Christmas—the one with the skull and crossbones. I know you love it. I know you’re wearing it for me. And it’s so weird, the you that I used to love superimposed over the guy who pushed me down on that bed and shoved himself into me while I tried not to cry. I’m so sad for us. For what we were. For what we maybe could have been.
“Grace?”
It’s too late for Gideon, but it’s not too late for me. For me. It feels good to be selfish, but it’s hard.
I open my mouth, but the words won’t come. Despite everything, I don’t want to break your heart. I wish I wanted to. It would be so much easier to cut you down with a smile on my face. But I’m not an ass-kicking ninja warrior queen.
Yet.
“What happened?” you ask. You are Concerned Boyfriend.
Tears are filling my eyes and I shake my head, as if the words could just fall out so I won’t have to say them. Nat will have to put more bobby pins in my hair—I can feel my mortarboard slipping off.
You reach for me, your hands gripping my arms, your skin warm on mine. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
Oh god, you think it’s not you, that there was some kind of graduation drama. Your voice is so sweet, the question so innocent. You want to protect me and it’s too much. The end of high school, the end of us. The beginning of everything else. I don’t know if I can do this. After what you did to me the other day, this should be the easiest thing in the world. Why isn’t it? What’s wrong with me? I turn my head and see Nat and Lys. It makes me feel strong, knowing they have my back.
“I’m breaking up with you. Right now. Please don’t say anything.”
The words come out in a rush and sweat’s dripping off me and Please, god, please let me really do it this time. All those times I’d tried to do this and, in the end, it’s such a simple thing: five little words. I’m breaking up with you.
You have no idea how hard it is to love you.
Bitch.
Whore.
Slut.
Stop being such a child.
You’re lucky I love you so much.
I hate you.
I’ll kill myself if you break up with me.
You stare at me. No threats. No tears. For once, you don’t say a word. Because you know I mean it this time.
And then I walk away from you.
I don’t look back.
EPILOGUE
It is Christmas in August.
Natalie and I trim a fake tree. Alyssa puts on her favorite Christmas music. The house smells like sugar cookies and the stockings are hung by the chimney with care.
We’re having a party tonight. Lys is inviting Jessie and Nat is inviting her childhood friends who went to a different high school, and Kyle, who now knows the whole story of you and me. He’s been hanging out with us a lot, our go-to guy when things go bump in the night.
The three of us—Nat, Lys, and I—have been living alone in Nat’s house since graduation. Her siblings are at camp, along with her mom, who’s the summer camp nurse. We are given free rein, we are trusted, we are worthy of that trust.
Our days bleed into one another, one long strand of perfect moments: lip-synching to the Rent soundtrack, waking up to full glasses of Pepsi, overcooking and undercooking everything. We live in a cocoon of awesome, protected from you and Roy and anything else that dares to rain on our parade. We are young and free and we will never die.
My best friends stitch me back together one hug, one laugh, one dance-off at a time. The past year melts away under their care. There are days when I wake up sad and angry at all the time lost, at the wasted months of loving a ticking time bomb. They take me to get a Pepsi Freeze. They prescribe twenty minutes of jumping on the trampoline or force me into Nat’s car late at night so we can drive by your apartment and flip it off. Sometimes I cry, wondering how it was possible that I could have been so goddamn weak, so fucking spineless. Without you around, I can finally see all the ways you’d kept my heart shackled to yours. The manipulation, the verbal and physical abuse, the mind games. And yet I still miss you. Isn’t that fucked up? But I do. I miss being loved, even if that love was sick, terminally ill.
These girls, this summer—it’s the best kind of medicine. They show me how I can be enough, how I don’t need you to be me. They show me how to fill days with good memories, catching and trapping them like lightning bugs in a jar. They glow and glow and glow.
I help Nat put the star on the tree—the final touch—then she drives me over to the Honey Pot. She picks me up at the end of my shift—a double. I’m working as much as I can to save up for the things I’ll need for school: computer, dorm decor, and anything else a proper college girl needs.
“Ugh, I smell like the Pot,” I say as I walk into the house.
The living room explodes with laughter.
“I told you she always says that!” Lys says to the room.
I love this: being known, laughing, not worrying if I’ll do something that will make you threaten me, hurt me, slice me wide open with your words. I don’t have to look over my shoulder anymore.
It has been seven weeks since I broke up with you. I called your mom right away so that she’d keep an eye on you. If you tried to hurt yourself, I never heard about it, but she’s texted me a few times, telling me how much she and your dad miss me. I wonder if you put her up to it. You scared us for a while there, pounding on the door in the middle of the night, coming to visit me at work. One night we came home late from the movies and we’re certain you broke in—I could smell my perfume in the air, as though it had just been sprayed, and my favorite shirt was missing, the one you helped me pick out at the vintage store downtown. Once or twice we made Kyle sleep over so that we didn’t have to sleep with butcher knives under our pillows. I’ll never forget what happened the morning after Disneyland—the look on your face as you held my wrists. It keeps me up nights.
> We pass out presents wrapped in Christmas paper we’ve foraged from Nat’s garage. Silly Dollar Store stuff: Play-Doh, a shower cap with rubber duckies on it, six GI Joe figurines. Kyle crosses to the piano and runs his fingers along the keys. I think of Gideon and my heart hurts.
I’m sandwiched between Nat and Lys and I slip my arm around each of their waists as we sing carol after carol—rowdy, raucous versions of the old standards and the best cover of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” that I’ve ever heard. I don’t let it bother me that you sang that song to me last Christmas because it’s not yours and you can’t have it. I direct the words to Natalie and Lys, the real loves of my life, who stood by me during my darkest moments. These girls are my lights at the end of the tunnel, guiding me back to myself every time I get lost stumbling around in the darkness.
In a few weeks, I’ll be moving to Los Angeles. I’ve already purchased my leopard-print bedspread and red pillows with delicate gold embroidery: Chinese dragons, for good luck. I have my Rent poster carefully rolled up. My Paris-themed calendar. My French dictionary. All of it is neatly stacked in a corner of the living room, waiting. Waiting for me to start the rest of my life. I know you’ll be there, playing shows with Evergreen, being a rock god. Your mom texted me that you were moving there in September but that you’re not going to school. I’m worried you’ll come to USC looking for me. Yesterday Lys handed me a bottle of pepper spray on a key chain and it goes everywhere with me now so I hope, for your sake, that you leave me alone. I wish I could warn every girl you’re going to meet, tell them that your hotness and sexy songs and enigmatic smile aren’t worth the cost of the ride. I wish I could put a warning label on you. I wonder if you’ll always haunt me like this, a ghost with a baseball bat and a bad-boy car.
Natalie and Lys start rocking out to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and a sob tears up my throat, my eyes instantly damp. I rush into the kitchen and splash my face at the sink, sick with the thought of leaving them behind. I wish I could pack them in a suitcase and set them up in my dorm room at USC. I wish I could have all the hours you stole from me back so I could spend every minute with them.
I need an excuse for being in the kitchen and so I grab an apple and begin idly twisting its stem, playing the little game with fate that I have since I was a kid. Once again, the stem breaks off at G.
And I suddenly get it.
G is for Grace. Not you. Not Gideon. I am the person I’m supposed to be with right now. I lift the apple to my mouth and take a big, noisy bite.
It’s just as sweet as I thought it would be.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I was sixteen I fell in love. Hard. For the next two and a half years I would stay in my bad romance, desperate to get out of it. It wasn’t until I’d graduated high school that I got the guts to break up with my Gavin. It can seem pretty crazy that anyone would stay in such an abusive relationship so long, but when you’re in it, breaking up seems impossible.
The essence of this book is true even though much of what you’ve read is made up, wildly altered, or reimagined. As Stephen King says, “Fiction is a lie, and good fiction is the truth inside the lie.”
I wrote this book because, as the incomparable Lady Gaga puts it: I’m a free bitch, baby. If you’re stuck in your own bad romance, I want you to be free, too. I also wanted to raise awareness: dating abuse now affects one in three young adults. Young women ages 16 to 24 experience the highest rates of rape and sexual assault. That’s messed-up and it needs to stop.
On the next page are some places where you can get help. I’ve also created a website for all of us to share our experiences and to get encouragement and inspiration. Blogs, art, music, and lots of love: badromancebook.tumblr.com. Our hashtag is #chooseyou.
Whoever you are, know that it does get better. You just have to take the leap. You’ve got this.
RESOURCES
Love Is Respect (loveisrespect.org): This site is amazing. It has quizzes you can take to see if you’re in a healthy or unhealthy relationship, tons of resources on what you can do to get help, and how to stay safe. If you are in an abusive relationship, this should be your first stop for online help. Peer advocates are available 24/7 to talk. Text “love is” to 22522 or call 1-866-331-9474.
Break The Cycle (breakthecycle.org): This site has tons of info about dating violence. You can find out what the signs are and what you can do about it.
No More (nomore.org): This organization is great and also has information if you are the friend or family member of someone who is being abused. They need you more than ever. For some tips on how to help them, check out nomore.org/how-to-help/what-to-say/.
Girls Health (girlshealth.gov): This site has all the phone numbers you need, a great Q and A section, quizzes, stats, and more.
Day One (dayoneny.org): If you are—or think you might be—in an abusive relationship and live in NYC, go here to find out more. You can also call their confidential hotline at (800) 214-4150 or text (646) 535-DAY1 (3291).
These hotlines are free, private, and open 24 hours a day:
National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
National Child Abuse Hotline: 1-800-4-A-CHILD (422-4453)
#CHOOSEYOU
badromancebook.tumblr.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sarah Torna Roberts and Melissa Wilmarth: thank you for being my Nat and Lys. Thank you for saying BREAK UP WITH HIM a million times and for the best summer of my life and for holding me together and patching me up. I love you girls so, so much. Brandon Roberts, thank you for coming over that night when we were pretty sure the house had been broken into and for making me laugh and being the big brother I never had. Diane Torna, your generosity that summer knows no bounds.
To the teachers, counselors, pastors, and other adults who graced my life in high school—especially Susan Kehler (only the best drama teacher ever), Tricia Boganwright, Julie Morgenstern, Sonny Martini, and my Fire By Night family: thank you for your support and love during the very worst years of my life. (And for saying BREAK UP WITH HIM, even though I didn’t listen for a long time.) And a huge hug to all the friends and mentors I had who were there through it all in one way or another: there were so many of you, so forgive me for not listing names—I hope you know who you are.
Love to my family, especially Meghan Demetrios, sister extraordinaire: thank you for foot wars, sticking up for me, and always being on my side. Zach Fehst: I am one lucky girl to have married you and become a part of your awesome family (hey, Fehsts!). I’m so glad you asked for my number after acting class freshman year at USC.
Stephanie Uzureau-Anderson, Jessica Welman, and Allison Campbell: oh, ladies, where do I start? I’m so grateful the USC dorm gods put us together. Who knew “tragic teen” would be the subject of a book one day? (Of course, I shall never forget that he was the subject of an excellent musical first.) You got me through my first year without HIM.
Last, but not least, thanks to Elena McVicar for beta reading; my VCFA Allies in Wonderland; my rockin’ agent, Brenda Bowen; and, of course, my editor, Kate Farrell, who made this book so much better and was such a cheerleader on this rough journey. Also, love to everyone at Holt and a shout-out to all the amazing artists who are on my Bad Romance playlist (especially you, Gaga): you made reliving this mess a whole lot easier and are waaaaaaay cheaper than therapy.
ALSO BY HEATHER DEMETRIOS
Something Real
I’ll Meet You There
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Heather Demetrios is the author of several critically acclaimed novels, including Something Real and I’ll Meet You There. She is a recipient of the PEN New England Susan P. Bloom Discovery Award and has an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts. When she isn’t traipsing around the world or spending time in imaginary places, she lives with her husband in New York City. Originally from Los Angeles, she now
calls the East Coast home.
Visit her online at heatherdemetrios.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Junior Year
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Senior Year
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Bad Romance Page 31