The Breakup Support Group

by Cheyanne Young

  “Damn. That’s some good willpower,” Ciara says, holding out her knuckles to me. I bump my fist to hers.

  Bastian smiles, his shoulders straightening. The look on his face says he wants to take all the credit for my amazing transformation over the last twenty-four hours, and I don’t mind. “Grab some pizza and have a seat,” Bastian says, his eyes looking somewhere behind me. “Our newest member just made more progress overnight than you’ve made in all of last year.”

  “Is that so?” The voice, low and soft, sends a chill down my spine. I glance over and watch him take a pizza box off the stack and carry it over to an empty desk next to Bastian. He sits and his dark eyes focus on mine. “You’ll have to teach me your ways,” he says, shrugging his hair out of his eyes. The corner of his lips lift into a cocky smile.

  The entire room seems to freeze in place and time slows until I can feel the seconds crawling by at a glacier-like pace. My first thought: God, he is so hot.

  My second thought is more logical:

  Who the hell would break Emory Underwood’s heart?

  Chapter Twelve

  “You’re heartbroken?” The words fly out of my mouth, disbelieving and accusing all at once. Emory’s eyes meet mine, and he takes a bite of pizza, seemingly unwilling to answer my question. Or maybe he thinks the answer is obvious.

  Bastian’s brows furrow and he waves a hand between the two of us. “You two know each other? Emory, I swear to God if—”

  I shake my head. “No, we don’t. Not really.”

  “We have one or two classes together,” Emory says, focusing more on the pizza than on me. “So what did I miss?”

  Ciara holds out her pizza crust between two fingers, carefully trying to eat it without damaging her nail polish. “Isla was about to show us the text from her ex-boyfriend.”

  “You should probably back up further than that,” Trish says. “Isla joined the group yesterday, and we gave her the homework of not texting her ex for twenty-four hours since the poor thing had been texting him every day with no response. Turns out, he texted her last night, and she was strong enough not to read it yet.”

  “Is that so?” Emory says, leaning forward in his desk.

  “Yep,” Ciara says. “I don’t know about you guys, I’m dying to know what’s in that text.”

  I feel my face flush under his intense gaze. In the brief seconds that pass, it’s as if Emory has peered straight into my soul and gleaned every single intimate secret about me. I shrivel in my desk, my throat suddenly dry. I grab the soda can next to me and pop open the top.

  Emory drums his fingers on his desk. “So what’s the text say?”

  “No way,” I say, shaking my head.

  Ciara gasps and Bastian gives me a concerned look. “Are you saying you want to delete the text unread?” Bastian asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m not reading the text aloud to someone I don’t even know.” I stare at Emory. It’s bad enough that he now knows I’m a heartbroken freak, the last thing I want to do is humiliate myself in front of him by reading something that could contain a thousand different embarrassing words.

  “You don’t know any of us,” Trish says.

  I ignore her, my gaze focused on the gorgeous guy in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that reads Qui vivra verra sitting across from me. “Everyone told me their story yesterday. I want to know yours.”

  “Fair enough,” Emory says with a shrug, but I’m not finished yet.

  I fold my arms across my chest and shove my pizza away. My appetite has been gone since he walked through the door. “I want to know how the hell you’re in a group for heartbroken people when I see you with a new girl every other day? You don’t seem very heartbroken. How do I know you’re not here to mock those of us who are?”

  “Whoa, Isla,” Bastian says, holding up his hands. “This is a supportive and safe environment. Everything everyone says in this room is confidential.”

  “He’s cool,” Xavier says over a mouthful of pizza. “Trust me, he won’t say anything.” He nods to Emory and Emory nods back, a faint smile spreading across his lips as if they share some kind of secret.

  I take a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “It’s bad enough that you guys know I cried in second period and made a total idiot out of myself, but I’m—”

  “You cried in second period?” Emory says. His voice sounds almost sarcastic, but there’s an emotion behind his voice that I can’t quite place. “Damn, this guy did a number on you. How long were you together?”

  “Four years,” I say before pressing my lips together. “I’m not talking until you talk. What’s your story?”

  “Wow, four years. How’d he break up with you?” Emory asks, that cocky smile remaining on his lips even though his eyes soften a bit. “Please tell me it wasn’t through text.”

  Rage rises up in my chest, and I grit my teeth to hold it at bay. “You have to tell me your story first. It’s only fair. Bastian?”

  Bastian nods, his lips moving to the side of his mouth. He looks like a therapist from a movie, like maybe he practices this thoughtful look in the mirror. “I agree. She should know your story. Go on, Em. We’re all friends here.”

  Emory’s tongue runs across his bottom lip, sending tingles down my spine. My breath catches in my throat. How can he do that with just one movement? And why do I even care? I’m here because of Nate.

  “Do you know how this support group was started?” Emory asks me.

  I glance over at Bastian, and he gives me a little nod. “No?” I say.

  “Maybe you should tell the story,” he says, throwing a sideways glance at Bastian. “It just sounds smug when I say it.”

  Trish snorts and shoots a finger gun toward Emory. He winks at her. I feel more out of the loop than I have all freaking school year. Bastian rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll tell it. Four years ago, I think it was your freshman year, right?” Emory nods and Bastian continues, “It was just after Christmas and Mrs. Gertie was ambushed by three girls who claimed to have been heartbroken by Emory over the Christmas break. Apparently, they found each other on Twitter or something.”

  “Facebook,” Emory chimes in.

  “Facebook,” Bastian says, waving his hand. He shrugs and spreads his arms out. “She suggested they start a support group for people who’d been hurt in relationships and invite others to join in. Now it’s an official school club, thanks to Ms. Meadows volunteering her time.”

  We all glance to the back corner of the room where Ms. Meadows is sliding blank canvases into a long shelf, but she doesn’t seem to notice us. It is repulsive how easily I can lust after this guy who has broken so many hearts. What is wrong with me? Someone as hot as Emory shouldn’t have so much power to hurt people.

  “So how many of you has he hurt?” I ask, looking around the circle of desks. “Ciara?”

  She shakes her head, shooting a derisive look in Emory’s direction. “The boy is hot, I’ll give him that, but he’s too young.”

  “I’m older than you,” he says.

  She rolls her eyes. “Not old enough.”

  “Don’t worry Isla,” Emory says. My knees go weak at the sound of my real name without his stupid mocking mispronunciation of it. “I don’t usually show up if one of my exes is here.” He makes a come here motion with his hand. “So let’s see that text.”

  I shake my head, focusing on the leather bracelet around his wrist. A silver compass charm is woven into the center of the leather bands. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here. Let me guess … there was a special girl in your past, and she broke your heart. Now you’re a serial dater because no one will ever live up to her?”

  There’s a moment of absolute silence in the art room. My eyes narrow as a smug satisfaction fills my bones. Then Emory shakes his head, slowly but it’s enough to let me know I’m wrong.

  “Hardly,” he says with a snort. “I’m here by force, not choice.”

  When he’s silent again, I look to Bastian for mo
re of an explanation. Bastian shrugs. “Mrs. Gertie sent him here because he’s broken too many hearts and she wants him to know what it feels like. She wants him to gain some empathy so he’ll stop his heart-shattering tirade.”

  “Hey, I’m not an asshole,” Emory says slowly. Everything he says is measured, self-assured. It’s infuriating. “I make it very clear that I’m not looking to settle down with anyone. Girls say they’re cool with it, but they never are.”

  “Then why do you keep doing it?” I ask.

  Emory’s phone vibrates from the corner of the desk, and he picks it up, giving it a quick glance. Bastian tsks. “No phones allowed, man. You know the rules.”

  “Calm down, it’s just my weather app.” Emory presses something on the screen, and his phone goes dark again. “Besides, Isla’s phone seems to be the topic of today’s meeting, and you’re not griping at her.”

  “That’s different,” Bastian says with a heavy sigh. He’s been scribbling in his notebook for the last five minutes, and he takes a moment to drop his pen and flex his fingers. “Do you feel comfortable sharing with us now, Isla?”

  “I guess.” Honestly, the anxiety over Nate’s unread text message has pretty much disappeared over the last few minutes. I simply can’t wrench my eyes away from Emory’s forearms and the muscular lines of his chest beneath his black shirt. His stupid freaking smile that always looks more like a smirk—I hate it, and I hate him. And yet I want to know what it’s like to be one of the girls he whispers to in the hallways. I want to be the recipient of that sultry smile, and I want to feel the touch of his hands pulling me close to him in the stairwell.

  “Come on, girl. Let’s see the damn text!” Ciara slaps her palm on my desk, and I startle. Now all eyes are on me, not just Emory’s. I pick up my phone and slide the screen, then click the messages icon. Nate’s name is right at the top, bold because of the unread text. A rush of something—adrenaline? excitement?—flows through my veins at the anticipation of finally knowing what Nate had told me last night.

  Sensing my hesitation, Bastian clears his throat. “This is a safe place, Isla. Everything shared in Break Up Support Group is confidential.”

  “Okay then.” I swallow, looking around the group.

  Emory’s eyes glisten. He drops a pizza crust into the now empty box on his desk. “My lips are sealed.”

  There’s another vibrating sound and Ciara curses. “Dammit, Em. This is a tense moment. Put your damn phone away. Isla, read the text.”

  Emory silences his phone and drops it into his jeans pocket. “Sorry. Weather app.”

  “What kind of person has a weather app anyway?” I ask.

  Emory’s head tilts to the side, his gaze burning into my soul. “People who care about weather.”

  I roll my eyes. Ciara slaps my desk again. Trish and Xavier and Bastian are all leaning toward me, eyes wide and hopeful. “Let’s set the scene,” Bastian says, picking up his pen again. “The last time you talked to Nate was at last week’s football game, and he said he wished you were there. You told him you were there, and he simply ignored you. There has been no contact on his part since then, right?”

  “Right,” I say, wishing I could dig a hole through the tile floor, crawl inside and cover myself with art supplies. It was humiliating enough telling the group this story yesterday. Now Emory hears every word. I sigh. “And then he texted me last night in the epitome of irony since I wasn’t supposed to text him, thanks to you guys.”

  I hold up my phone so everyone can see it and then, with a trembling thumb, I press his name. My heartbeat quickens when I read the words from the guy I love—used to love—with all of my heart. It’s just one of the thousands of messages he’s sent me over the years, but this one hurts the worst. My eyes blur with the familiar tingle of warm tears.

  Desks are shoved aside as Xavier and Trish move forward, leaning in to peer at my phone’s screen. Emory must be able to read the message from where he stands behind Trish because he lifts a brow and then looks away. “Damn,” he says under his breath.

  There is a collective silence that stretches on for several moments. Even Bastian is at a loss for words, though he writes one final thing in his notebook before flipping it closed. The bell rings. Relief, or something like it, pours over me at the sound. “Well, there you have it,” I say, shoving up and out of the desk. I grab my stuff and take my pizza plate and toss it in the trashcan by the door. No one chases after me, and I am grateful for their kindness.

  My phone is once again too heavy as I hold it in my hand, stepping into the throng of students in the hallways. Several dozen bodies fill the spaces around me, all rushing to their next class, and I take comfort in being able to blend into the crowd. Being the center of attention is overrated.

  My feet walk quickly, carrying me around the corner and far away from the art room where every member of the support group is probably talking about how pathetic and sad it is to be me. I can never go back to a time where I hadn’t read the message, so I do the next best thing. I press on Nate’s name in my phone and delete the entire thread of texts, that way I’ll never have to read those words again.

  Nate: So I’m starting to date again - just wanted you to hear it from me first.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emory Underwood smells like fresh laundry and a little like citrus. Like something clean when in reality he’s not clean at all. I hate that I recognize his scent the moment it hits me in the hallway.

  “What’s the rush, Iz-la Rush?”

  “Ha,” I say, keeping my focus on the backs of the students in front of me. “Did you think of that pun all by yourself?”

  “Of course I did. It’s one of my many talents.”

  I give him a sardonic smile. “Next to breaking hearts?”

  He nods. “If you want to call that a talent. But I’m here to talk about you. Seems like you had more to say back there.”

  I shake my head and look forward again. “I’ve shared enough embarrassing moments with you, thanks.”

  To my right, Emory’s presence is a force of nature. People get out of his way as we walk. He must know this because he steps a little in front of me and guides us down the main corridor of the school where the hallway gets too narrow to accompany so many students. He doesn’t say anything else, and I have this weird mixture of emotions rise up inside of me. I want him to talk to me, but I also want him to just go away.

  We make a left, toward the science wing of the school. My class is on the very top floor, up four flights of stairs. Emory either knows this, or he has a class up here too, because he stays beside me when I head to my favorite staircase on the south side of the building. Silence settles over us once we’ve reached this part of the school, and soon the only sound is our footsteps climbing up the stairs. At the first bend, I slow down, hoping he’ll take the opportunity to scale the rest of the stairs out of step with me.

  He stops and runs a hand through his hair. “You tired already, Iz-la? We still have three flights of stairs to go.”

  I narrow my eyes. “How do you know where my class is?”

  He shrugs. “Fifth-period physics is right across the hall from fifth-period anatomy.”

  “Don’t you have some girl to swap spit with or something?” I ask, taking a step backward just to lessen the tension in the air. I fold my arms across my chest. “Why are you walking with me? We’re not even friends.”

  Emory nods, peering at me through the hair in his eyes. “Sure we are. We’re in the same support group.”

  “That’s not funny,” I snap. I turn and start walking up the next flight of stairs.

  “It’s a little funny,” Emory says quietly as he joins me. “Bastian is all about being friends and confidants and all of that shit.” He nudges me with his shoulder, and I stumble to the left. “So you could say we’re friends.”

  I shake my head. “I would never be friends with a guy like you.”

  “Ouch.”

  I look over, and he gives me
a wry smile. He doesn’t look the least bit offended by my comment. I draw in a deep breath at the top of the second floor and turn around the bend in the stairs, heading for the third floor quicker than before. “You’re not hurt,” I mutter, stomping up each step now. “You’re just another asshole of a guy who uses girls for his selfish carnal needs and then throws them away when he’s done with them.”

  He shifts his backpack onto his other shoulder. “Okay, that would have been a little hurtful if there was any truth in it.”

  I stop dead in the middle of the staircase. Emory gets to the third-floor landing and then turns around, looking for me. He lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

  I shake my head, holding back a thousand insults. Hysterically telling him to go to hell wouldn’t solve anything. “I get what Mrs. Gertie was doing with you by sending you to the support group. But she has too much faith in you. You’re clearly a lost cause.”

  There he goes with that piercing gaze again. He puts a hand on the handrail and takes five steps down until he’s one stair above me. My stomach twists but my jaw stays rigid, my glare as harsh as I can make it. I talk just to break the silence. “You can get away with it now, but one day your sins will come back to you, Emory. Someone will hurt you, and I hope I’m here to see you get what you deserve.”

  “What exactly am I getting away with?” he asks, taking the final step down to my stair. I inch backward toward the wall, and he steps closer, his eyes predatory and painfully gorgeous. My stomach flutters at his nearness, and I hate myself for it.

  When I remember it’s my turn to talk, I’ve almost forgotten his question. My breathing is shaky, and I play it off as being tired from walking up all the stairs. My finger touches his chest, and I almost expect him to back away. He doesn’t. I swallow. “You hurt girls, and you get away with it. For whatever reason, there’s always a new girl in line after you’ve tossed the previous one away. That won’t last forever.”

  His hand wraps around my finger, and slowly, my finger is moved down and away from his chest. Chills race across my skin at his touch. “Like I said before, Isla. I don’t hurt girls on purpose.” He shakes his head and releases my finger. I pull my hand close to my body, and he steps closer, sending a tornado of butterflies on a rampage through my stomach. “Is it my fault that girls give me attention? And when they do, I tell them I have no interest in a real relationship. That’s being honest, right? How is it all on me when they get mad after all I’ve done is tell them the truth?”