“One of the popular girls who rejected you posted photos of hotter guys?” Ciara asks.
He nods. “Remember that time last year when I got Morgan to go out for ice cream with me? Well, she posted a selfie of us to her Facebook, and it was single-handedly the best thing to ever happen to me. Then the next day she posted selfies of her sucking face with some football idiot, and she couldn’t even give me the courtesy of deleting the photo of us.”
“Ouch,” Emory says, speaking up for the first time all lunch period. Instinct has me glancing toward the sound of his voice and his eyes pierce into mine from the next desk over. He’s wearing a gray shirt with the word Italy across the front, and I choose to look at that instead of in his eyes. “Sucks to be upstaged by some football idiot.”
Was that a jab at Nate? I keep my face blank and uninterested. I will not let him know he’s getting to me.
Xavier groans. “Tell me about it. That’s the day I learned there’s about ten different ways for girls to say, ‘Damn, your new boyfriend is way hotter than Xavier’ in a Facebook comment.”
“You’ll have your time, man,” Emory tells him. “You’ll find the right girl one day.”
“Wow,” Trish says with a snort. “Was that encouraging advice about dating coming from Mister Player?”
He shrugs and gives her a lazy smile that makes my knees weak.
“Again,” Bastian says with an exasperated tone as if he’s said this a million times, “These are all reasons to stay off social media during a breakup.”
I nod. “I hope I never have to know Nate’s new girlfriend’s degree of hotness. I think I’ll stay off social media for the next ten years.”
“Amen to that,” Ciara says, studying her cuticles. “Only, it’s physically impossible for me to stay off Facebook. Too many fine-ass college guys with single relationship statuses.”
“We’ll get to that later,” Bastian says, pointing at Ciara. He turns to me but then I realize he’s looking beyond me. “Emory, anything you’d like to add to today’s discussion before we move on to Isla’s update?”
He shrugs. “I’m good.”
“I’d like an update,” Ciara says. “You’ve been shockingly alone in the hallways lately.”
I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s noticed how Emory walks straight into first period and gym class without so much as a single swooning girl waving goodbye to him. He’s been utterly alone for the last three days, not that I’ve been paying attention.
Emory sits up straighter. “So when I date too much you guys bitch at me but now that I’m not dating, you’re still complaining.” His eyes cut toward Bastian. “How am I supposed to win at this game?”
“It’s not a game. It’s life,” Bastian says with a smile. “Are you dating anyone now?”
Emory shakes his head. “Not at the moment.”
Bastian nods as if that was some insightful revelation. “Is there any reason why?”
Emory’s mouth opens like he’s about to say something and then his brows furrow and he draws in a deep breath and shakes his head. “No reason.”
Though I’ve been avoiding him as much as possible, I can’t help but look over. The second I do, he catches my eye and smirks. I swallow and turn my attention back to the empty pizza plate in front of me.
“Okay.” Bastian writes in his notebook, his expression bored. “Thank you for sharing with the group. It’s your turn, Isla.”
“Yay,” I say sarcastically and Trish chuckles under her breath. Bastian ignores us.
“So you cleared your Facebook … tell us more. How are you feeling? What are you doing with your time now that you’re moving on from sulking about Nate?”
I draw in a deep breath as I think. “Well … I destroyed my room. I took out every gift he’d ever given me and everything that reminded me of him. Now it looks like I live in an empty dorm room, but at least there’s no more memories of the last four years to make my heart hurt.”
“That’s excellent,” Bastian says, writing in his notebook. “And you’ve still avoided all communication with him?”
I nod, pressing my lips together. “But that’s not hard anymore. I don’t want to talk to him now that he has a new girlfriend. I’m not about to become the pathetic crazy ex-girlfriend.”
My phone buzzes from the corner of the desk, and since it’s against the rules for the Break Up Support Group, I know it’d be incredibly rude to check it. “Sorry,” I say, grabbing my phone and shoving it into the back pocket of my jeans. It buzzes again immediately after it’s in my pocket and I feel my cheeks redden.
Emory takes his phone out, peering at the screen. “Do you have the weather app, too?” he asks, watching his phone. “Looks like there’s a chance of rain tomorrow morning.”
“No, I don’t have the weather app,” I snap. “I’m not a retired old man.”
Trish snorts and Bastian flips to a new page in his notebook. “We don’t have time to get off topic,” he says, checking his watch and then writing something on the new page. “There’s only seven minutes left in lunch. But yeah, who uses weather apps? Just look outside if you want to know the weather.” Bastian shakes his head, and Emory gives him the finger.
“Exactly,” Ciara says. “My dad is almost retired, and he uses a weather app.” Her eyes light up, and she gasps. “Maybe that’s why Emory sucks at dating. He has the personality of a retired elderly man.”
“That’s it!” I say quickly, snapping my fingers. “I think we’ve solved Emory’s problem. To save time, he should probably start attending the support group at that retirement home down the road.”
The group laughs, and I glance over at Emory. He turns toward me with a seductive smile that seems to make time come to a complete stop. He watches me like he’s thinking up a creative form of payback for my jab at him. He reaches over and shoves my arm, a playful gesture that sends chills up my skin.
“Joke’s on you guys,” he says, glancing over the group. “When the next massive hurricane blows through Texas, guess who will just keep that information to himself?” He shakes his phone as if it holds all the secrets in the world. “This app will save my life, and you’ll all be ghosts, wishing you had paid attention to Mother Nature like I do.”
“September is over and so is hurricane season,” Ciara says, moving her head from side to side. “So no one cares, Emory.”
“Ooooooh!” Xavier says into his fist.
“Okay, okay,” Bastian says, holding out his arms like the band conductor. “Let’s get back on topic.” My phone buzzes yet again from my back pocket, and Bastian looks at me, lifting an eyebrow. “Since it’s still your turn to share your progress with the group, Isla, maybe you’d like to share why your phone is blowing up?”
“Sorry,” I say, shrinking into my desk chair. I take out my phone. “Let me just put it on silent.”
“Not before you tell us if those are messages from Nate,” he says, holding his pen poised over the notebook as if he’s anticipating the need to write about this incident.
I shake my head, looking over the four new messages from Tess and one from Kaylee. “Not Nate. Just friends from my old school.”
“Have you shared your progress with them?” Bastian asks.
I shrug. “A little. I didn’t tell them how badly I was heartbroken if that’s what you mean. So there’s really no reason to tell them that I’m doing better.”
“What do they want?” Ciara asks, leaning forward in her chair as if that’ll help her see across the circle to where my phone rests in my hand. “Because I’m your best friend now,” she says, tossing me a wink. “Bitches can step off.”
I smile, wishing I could tell her how she’s been more of a friend to me in the last two weeks than my old friends have been for the last few years, but I’m not about to get that sappy in front of the entire group. Being in this circle of broken-hearted people (plus Emory) is already like slicing open my chest and placing my insecurities and heartache out on a pedestal for
everyone to see.
“It’s nothing,” I say, sliding through the messages on my phone. “They’ve been bugging me all week to go to the Warriors’ game tonight. But there’s really no point since I’m no longer a Warrior, and I’m not dating a member of the team anymore.”
“Tonight?” Xavier says, his brows knitting together. “That’s the Warriors versus Wildcats game. You should tell your friends they can go with you and watch it from the Wildcats’ side.”
“That’s a good idea,” Trish says. “What better way to stick it to the ex than to watch our boys kick their ass at football?”
She’s not wrong—the Wildcats have historically won almost every game against my old high school. I sigh. “It’d be fun to see my friends again but I’m no longer cheering for that team, and it’d just be weird. Besides, what if Nate sees me and thinks I’m there just to stalk him? Or worse,” I say, feeling an uneasiness wash over me. “What if I run into him and his new girlfriend? What if he’s dating one of my old cheerleader friends?”
“That’s a high stack of what-ifs,” Trish says. “You can’t live your life fearing things that haven’t happened and probably won’t happen.”
“Trish has a point,” Bastian says. “If they’re your friends, you shouldn’t let fear of an ex stop you from seeing them.”
“Here,” Xavier says, opening his backpack and digging around inside. He takes out an envelope and pulls out a slim ticket. “I got free tickets from student council. Now there’s no reason not to go.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the ticket. Besides the Wildcats logo across the center, this ticket looks exactly the same as the hundreds of football tickets I’ve had before. Only this time I’ll be entering the game without Nate by my side. “But I’m not sure if I’m ready to go. Or if I should go.”
“Go,” Ciara says. “I’d go with you but my brother’s taking me out for Chinese food with his friends and you know I can’t miss that.”
“Let’s take a vote,” Bastian says. “Who thinks Isla should go to the football game tonight and see her friends and not see or talk to or even think about Nate while she’s there?”
Trish, Ciara, and Xavier instantly raise their hands. “Emory?” Bastian says.
Emory nods, tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk. “I think you should go.” He looks over at me, his eyes roaming from my face down to my black flats and back up again. “You should go and look hot and make him feel like an idiot for leaving you.”
“How am I supposed to look hot?” I ask, feeling my heart speed up under his intense gaze.
He shrugs. “Just be yourself, snowflake.”
Chapter Sixteen
The crisp autumn air fills my lungs when I swing open my car door. Tomorrow is the start of October and today marks two months since my high school sweetheart dumped me in the Hasting’s guest bedroom. Unable to step out of my car just yet, I lean back in my seat, gazing up at my car’s gray roof. Driving into the parking lot at Deer Valley High was nerve-racking and painful in a nostalgic way, and now that I’m here, parked in the very last row near the football field, I can’t seem to get out.
Two months ago I became single. Month anniversaries are a big deal in junior high. I remember how big of a deal I made it when Nate and I made it one month and then two and three. On the date we had been dating for six months, I’d talked Nate into celebrating what I called our “Half-year anniversary” and he took me to the park where we had a picnic with sandwiches and cupcakes. We were just kids back then, but when I look back at the memory, I can remember every great emotion from that day. How special it felt getting to know someone for the first time—the tingles in my stomach when he’d grabbed my hand and kissed me on top of the quilt we’d laid on the grass.
I lower my gaze and catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, batting my eyelashes to admire the shimmery gray eyeshadow I’d worked so hard to perfect before driving over here. I will not start counting off the months since the breakup. It seems fitting to go out alone tonight. I almost don’t want to meet up with my old friends and instead choose to live out the night alone and free.
The walk through the parking lot toward the football field is achingly familiar, but when I veer off to the left side of the gated entrance and step in line on the visitor’s side, it’s foreign and wrong. Parents of football players I don’t know wait in line in front of me and students from Granite Hills file in line behind me. Their excited chatter about the Wildcats’ current winning streak would have annoyed me a month ago. Now I am one of them, and I guess I should be excited that our team will probably win the game tonight.
I take my free ticket from the side pocket in my purse and hand it to the woman sitting behind the table. It’s a relief that I don’t recognize her as one of the part-time employees from last year because I have no desire to explain why I’m walking onto the wrong side of the field today. Everything is mostly the same on this side of the field, though the concession stand isn’t as big because it doesn’t also have a storage room for the band’s equipment behind it.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach as I shuffle through the crowd of Granite Hills people and make my way to the fence on the edge of the football field. Wildcats cheerleaders practice warmups on the rust-colored track that runs around the field, their white and blue uniforms bouncing underneath the stadium lights. Across the field on the home side, the Warriors football players are warming up on the sidelines. I can’t bring myself to look over there just yet, so I take out my phone and shoot a text to Tess instead.
Isla: Surprise … I’m at the game. Where are you?
I lean against the fence, watching my phone for a reply. Someone screams and I look over toward the bleachers, finding two teenage guys jumping on top of each other, shouting whoops and playful insults. I notice the bleachers are already half filled, and people are still walking around and lining up to get inside. And then I see him.
Emory Underwood stands at the bottom of the bleachers, his hand resting casually on the railing behind him. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black shirt—his signature hot-as-hell look. He shakes his head, laughing at something one of the two girls in front of him just said. My chest tightens. God help me, but for the last three days, I kind of liked Girl-free Emory. Now he’s clearly back to his old antics, flirting it up with two freshmen girls wearing short shorts and Wildcats tank tops. They must be freezing, but I guess being cute enough to get Emory’s attention is worth a little frostbite.
I check my phone again, but there’s still no reply. I copy the same message to Kaylee, hoping someone will put me out of my misery soon. There’s no way I’ll walk over to the Warrior’s home side all alone.
My stomach growls and although I wanted to wait for my friends before getting food, I’m also sick of standing here like an idiot, so I head over to the concession stand. There are four lines that are all at least a dozen people long, so I step in line and hope that one of my friends will reply to my text before I get up there to order.
My phone buzzes a while later when I’m third in line. Good timing, but now I kind of really want some nachos before I walk over to their side of the field.
Tess: Sorry, we actually stayed home tonight. Wanna come over?
Seriously? Disappointment churns in my stomach. I shove my phone in my back pocket to avoid sending a rude reply that I’ll regret later. They spent all freaking week begging me to go to the game with them and now they aren’t even here. I shake my head, clenching my jaw as I watch a mother in front of me dole out antibacterial gel to all of her children.
“Hey there, snowflake.” He’s using that low, charming voice, and from the sound of it, he’s right behind me. I turn around. My knees feel wobbly, and my breath catches—all things I hope he doesn’t notice. Seeing Emory standing in front of me, bathed in the glow of the high-beam stadium light above us, with the setting sun at his back is like seeing him for the first time. He is the opposite of Nate in every way.
Nate is massive, to
wering a foot taller than me. He fills the room with his presence and isn’t afraid to make himself the center of attention. Emory is an enigmatic presence; always watching quietly or caught up in his own world that you wish you were a part of. He doesn’t seek assurance from anyone but himself.
“Hi,” I say, realizing that staring at him for an eternity is considered bad social etiquette.
My body seems to heat up under his scrutinizing gaze. “Decent job on looking hot. Personally, I would have suggested that you do something with your hair, but, it’ll do.”
I touch my hair on instinct. It’s in a ponytail and feels like all the hair is where it should be. “What’s wrong with a ponytail?”
“It’s just …” he says, gesturing his hand in the air. “Boring. Not seductive.”
“Why do you care what I look like?” I snap, glancing back down at my phone. There’s nothing worthwhile there, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He shrugs. “I don’t care. Just helping out a fellow support group member. So, have you seen him yet? Flirted? Made him regret leaving you?”
“No,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “My friends aren’t here so I’m not sure I’ll even stay.”
“You have to stay,” he says, his voice low and so sexy I want to scream. “This is an official support group order. You don’t want to disappoint Bastian, do you?”
I shake my head. “We could just lie and say I stayed when I didn’t.”
“Now that sounds counter-intuitive to your recovery.”
“I’m not some kind of drug addict,” I say, swinging my arm to punch him in the shoulder. His hand grabs mine inches before I make contact. My skin sears underneath his touch, and it’s probably my imagination, but I swear he holds on to my fist so much longer than necessary before he lets me go.
“Love is worse than a drug.” He nods, head dipped low. “You might want to move forward, snowflake.”
The Breakup Support Group Page 11