I glance back and find that I’m next in line, behind the woman with a bunch of newly germ-free kids. Closing the distance between me and the woman, I turn back to Emory and act like being near him doesn’t make my palms sweat.
He is only a few inches taller than me, with shoulders I could lean against without needing to be on my tip toes. All it would take is one step forward, one dip of my head, and I’d be nestled perfectly against his neck.
I blink, pushing those thoughts out of my mind.
“Where’s your date?” I ask, choosing to diffuse the tingles in my stomach by bringing up the girl Emory is actually interested in.
“I don’t have a date,” he says as casually as if that were true.
I lift an eyebrow. “So … what do you call those two girls I saw you laughing with by the bleachers?” Then, because I’m officially mortified that I’ve outed myself as a stalker, I cover it up with, “What would Bastian say about that?”
His grin twists my stomach into knots. “Talking to someone doesn’t make them my date,” he says, peering at me with those gorgeous dark eyes. “If that were true, this little conversation would be your first date since the breakup.”
I press my lips together, and he winks so quickly I almost miss it.
“You’re really annoying, you know.” I turn back around. The woman in front of me leaves, and now I’m next in line. I order nachos and a bottled water, digging in my pocket for some cash.
Emory steps next to me and slides a ten dollar bill across the counter. “Make that two nachos and waters, please.”
“Sure thing,” the woman says, taking his cash and slipping it into the register.
I turn to him with a glare. “I can pay for my own food, you know.”
“I’m sure you can, but this one’s on me.” He peers into my eyes while the woman behind the counter shuffles around in the back, making our nachos. I can’t seem to look away from him for a solid five seconds.
“Well … thanks,” I say, unable to come up with a witty reply.
“So where are we going?” he asks, shoving a chip in his mouth as we turn to leave the concession stand a few minutes later. “You want to go sit on the home side so Dumbass will be sure to see you?”
We walk slowly while I make up my mind. “I don’t know. I mean, I’m finally getting over him, so I don’t know why it’d be helpful to purposely see him. I kind of just wanted to come tonight to hang out with my friends but they ditched me so this whole thing is pointless.”
A Wildcats cheerleader jogs through the crowd of people, holding two pom-poms in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. Her blue and white cheerleading uniform leaves very little to the imagination and the nude tights she wears makes her look even more flawless under the harsh track lights. She slows to a walk as she approaches us—or, Emory, rather.
“Hey, Em,” she says in a sultry southern drawl. She waves at him with her pom-pom hand.
“Hey.” He says it with an uninterested head nod, but she beams at his reply as if he’d just asked for her hand in marriage. The few seconds of resulting silence seem to take forever and I wish this girl would just hurry up and get on the field and out of my personal space with Emory.
When he doesn’t say anything else, she only looks mildly disappointed, her smile morphing into a grin. “See you around.”
“Mmhmm,” he murmurs, doing that slight head nod again.
When she’s out of earshot, I make a dramatic eye roll. “Okay, she has a ponytail.”
He lifts an eyebrow and eats another nacho chip. “So?”
“So, you made fun of me for my hairstyle but when princess blondie bounces over wearing the exact same hairstyle, you don’t seem to mind.”
“Why would I care what kind of hair she has?”
The lazy way he eats his nachos while I’m trying to have a serious conversation really grates on my nerves. “I don’t get you,” I say with a sigh. “But seriously, you should teach me your ways. I need more than one guy interested in me.” I swirl a chip around the cheese sauce. “Should I just start being an epic bitch to everyone? Then will guys flock to me the way girls flock to you?”
He pretends to ponder the question. In the distance, the marching band begins playing the Warriors’ fight song. “I don’t know if you can pull that off, snowflake.”
He smiles, tucking his bottle of water underneath his arm. Somehow, we’ve made it back to the fence that borders the football field and once again I’m faced with the fear of looking across the field toward the home side.
Cowardice takes over, and I look at Emory instead. “I’d give anything to have half of your apathy when it comes to dating,” I say. and my voice only cracks a little bit.
“Why’s that?” His voice is low, and it’s a struggle to hear him over the triumphant band music. He nudges me with his shoulder. He’s close enough to smell the citrusy laundry detergent on his clothing. “You’re a caring person. You shouldn’t force yourself to be something you aren’t.”
“So why are you so uncaring?” I ask, peering into his eyes, which are only a few inches away now. He flinches, and I know I’ve hit a sensitive topic with the guy who pretends to have no sensitivities at all. I should stop—shut up right now and say nothing more of it. But curiosity propels me forward. “Are you unable to date anyone seriously because you have, like, a million STDs?”
His lips twitch and then twist into a smile. “I can’t answer that question without embarrassing myself and my reputation.”
I make a face and take a step backward. “So you’re just crawling with diseases, huh? Gross.”
He rolls his eyes and steals another one of my chips. “You’re going to make me ruin my player reputation, huh?”
Somewhere in the distance, a coach blows a whistle and football players rush onto the field. “Please do ruin your player reputation,” I say. “Because now I’m so curious, I won’t let it go until you tell me.”
He sighs and turns, leaning his back against the fence. His eyes dart around, and he lowers his head toward me. “I don’t have sex with the girls I date. I drop them before it gets that far.”
All of the commotion all around us—the band, the players and the shouts from cheerleaders—it all fades into the distance as I watch Emory gaze at me with his defenses down. And I know without a doubt that he’s telling the truth.
I speak slowly. “So … why do you date so many girls if the end game isn’t sex?”
“I guess I keep hoping one of these girls will turn into the one, but deep down I know that won’t ever happen.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ve spent seventeen years watching my parents constantly screw other people and act like it’s not a big deal. For a while, I thought it didn’t have to be that way. I mean, I saw all the Disney films and shit. True love and all that. But I see now that waiting for a true love is exactly what the movies want you to think it is—a fairy tale.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and resist the urge to pull him into a hug. “Why don’t your parents just get divorced?
He shrugs. “Money. And cynicism, I guess. They have an agreement—I don’t know.” His tongue runs across his bottom lip, and he pulls off the label from his water bottle. “Despite what you think of me, I do at least try to consider sex to be a big deal. Something that should happen between two people who care about each other.”
“Wow,” I say.
His eyes narrow at me. “You’re not to tell anyone in support group this.”
I nod and press my lips together while I try to process all of this new information about Emory. Another girl approaches us, holding the hand of a kid who appears to be her little brother.
“Emory!” she says with a shriek of excitement. “I never see you at football games!”
He eats another chip. “First time for everything,” he says, staring into the tray of nachos as he speaks.
“Do you want to sit with me?” she asks. Her eyes never leave Emory’s, so I guess I shouldn�
�t be insulted that she hasn’t bothered to spare a glance toward me.
“Not tonight.” Emory leans over, bumping into me with his shoulder. Now she looks at me. Her smile fades, and she glances down at the little boy holding her hand.
“Okay. Well, see you later.” She turns around and heads toward the bleachers and Emory dives back into his nachos, totally unfazed by the awkwardness.
“That was …” I say, stopping to gaze at him.
“That was what, Iz-la?” he asks, his eyes darting to me for a second before he looks back at his food.
“How do you do it?” I shake my head. “How do you get so many girls interested in you, especially when you’re such a dick to them?”
His brows knit together and he looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head that also has a ponytail. “Was she interested?”
My eyes go wide. “Obviously.”
“I don’t even remember her name,” he says with a shrug.
“Really? Because you have three names for me.” I grab a chip, and it bends over, soggy from too much cheese sauce. My lip curls and I drop it back in the basket.
Emory grabs the soggy chip, tosses his head back, and lowers it into his mouth. “Maybe you’re just special,” he says.
I bite down a smile. “You’ve made it clear that I’m not.”
“I might have been wrong about that.” He rocks back on his heels and leans against the fence. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”
Chapter Seventeen
Loud sobs pour out of Ms. Meadow’s classroom on Monday at lunch. I can hear the despairing sound of heartbreak even through the closed door. Artwork hangs over Ms. Meadow’s door, blocking the narrow window that looks into her classroom, but even from out here, I know the broken-hearted girl is not a member of the support group. At least not yet.
I stop just outside of the classroom, turning to check my reflection in the tall window next to me. My hair is out of its usual ponytail today. Instead of rushing off to school like usual, I’d chosen to wake up a little earlier and put time into brushing out my hair and then curling the pieces near my face into soft waves. I know it’s stupid, but Emory Underwood all but admitted that I’m at least a little bit special on Friday night. It’s pretty much all I’ve been thinking of since then.
The sobs get a little quieter, and I steel myself for what I’ll find inside, then open the door and join the group. The desks are in a circle like usual, but everyone is standing around the only person sitting in a desk. Emory’s hand pats the shoulder of the crying girl, and he’s the last person I’d expect to be comforting someone after a breakup.
“Hi guys,” I say slowly, carefully approaching the circle.
“Sequoia, this is Isla,” Bastian says, his voice careful and soothing. “She was our newest member until today, and I think she can help you because your situations are similar.”
I lift an eyebrow at Bastian. Trish slides to the left, motioning to the desk next to Sequoia, a small girl with long brown hair that’s braided and pulled in front of her shoulder. I take a seat and offer her a timid smile. “Hi,” I say. “I’m not sure I can help, but I can try.”
Her bloodshot eyes meet mine and then her face crumples, and she starts crying again. Emory curses under his breath. “Bastian, I don’t think she needs a support group right now. She needs to watch me kick Ryan’s ass.”
“No, don’t do that,” Sequoia says, wiping her eyes. “Ryan hates you.”
“Even better that I kick his ass,” Emory says, sliding into the desk on her other side.
“Dude, it’s a little early to be moving in on this girl,” Xavier says. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the circle, his backpack open and its contents spread all over the floor in front of him. He’s wearing a red baseball cap that swallows his head. “She just got dumped like, ten minutes ago.”
Emory sighs in this annoyed way. “Sequoia is my cousin, dumbass.”
Now the comforting shoulder pat makes sense. I look over at Emory with admiration, an emotion I once thought I’d never be able to have for a guy like him.
The classroom door swings open with a bang against the wall and we all jump, turning to find Ms. Meadows shuffling into the classroom, her arms piled high with pizza boxes.
“Whoops,” she says with a smile as she turns and kicks the door closed with her foot. “Who’s ready for lunch?”
She gazes warmly at the group of us, her eyes widening when she notices the new addition to our little band of broken-hearted teenagers. “Oh, hello there,” she says, her smile fading. She places the pizzas on an empty art table and gives a little wave. “I’m not supposed to interact with the Break Up Support Group, but let me assure you, sweetheart, you are in good hands here.”
Bastian claps his hands together in front of his chest. “Okay, guys. Let’s get some pizza and then we’ll go around the group and share our updates so Sequoia can get a feel for things. Then if she’s up to it, she can tell us her story.”
Everyone shuffles toward the pizza table, but I stay behind and slide my desk closer to our new member. “How long did you date Ryan?” I ask quietly. Not that I’m any good at this kind of thing, but the group has helped me so far, and maybe I can return the favor now.
She peers at me through her eyelashes, tears clinging to her tanned cheeks. “Three years.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to make my voice comforting and compassionate even though I know the same sentiment did nothing for me when I was heartbroken. “My boyfriend left me two months ago after we’d been together since eighth grade,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Bastian’s right. I know what you’re going through, so trust me, I won’t give you any bullshit about it being easy to recover.”
She perks up, lifting her head and watching me with more than the passing interest of before. “My parents think I’m an idiot for even crying about this.”
I snort. “My parents all but said they were happy he dumped me because they think I can do better.” I say the last two words with disdain. “No one understands your pain except the people in this room.”
“Hey, snowflake,” Emory calls from across the room. We both look back, and he holds up a plate. He gestures toward the pizza. “You want cheese?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say. Butterflies rise up in my stomach at the revelation that he knows what kind of pizza I get.
“You’re cheese too, right?” he asks Sequoia. She nods and then gazes over the rest of the group who is still hovering around the pizza. She leans closer to me, her knuckles gripping the edge of the desk. “Did he call you snowflake?” she asks with a little chuckle.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t remind me.”
She smiles. “Well at least you’re not here because of him. That makes you better off than half the girls in this school.”
Her phrasing—HALF the girls in this school—makes my stomach knot up and then I am immediately embarrassed for even caring. Emory is not a saint. He’s made that much clear. I hold my smile, unwilling to let her or anyone else know about my secret, tiny, microscopic, pointless crush on him. Before I can say anything else, a bright blue paper plate with two slices of cheese pizza smacks down my desk. An identical plate appears on Sequoia’s desk and then Emory slides into the next desk beside me.
Ciara sits next to Sequoia, busy on her phone. A few seconds later, I get a text from her.
Ciara: What’s with this snowflake thing?
I look over at her, and she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. I roll my eyes and type out a reply.
Isla: He’s just an idiot.
“Mhmm, sure,” she says aloud. Luckily Emory doesn’t seem to notice.
Everyone else settles into the circle of desks and Xavier kicks his backpack aside, muttering something about not being able to find his cell phone charger before he joins us.
“I’ve always hated that prick,” Emory mutters under his breath, folding his pepperoni slice in half before he takes a bite. “You’re one of
the sweeter girls in the female population. He had no right to hurt you.”
“It’s okay, Em,” Sequoia says, rolling her eyes. “I’m serious. The last thing I want is for you to end up in jail because of me.”
Emory swallows and lifts an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’d get caught?”
She rolls her eyes and Emory smirks. I stare down at my pizza.
Bastian starts the meeting with a retelling of his weekend, how he went to the waterpark with his hotter older brother. According to him, every girl in the place was drooling over his brother, just like his last three ex-girlfriends had done. He tells us the story in an upbeat way, which I’m not sure is an act for our benefit or if he’s really being this positive about being the less attractive brother in his family.
“So guys, I have a plan,” Bastian says when I’ve nearly dozed off at the end of his long story. He straightens his shoulders and pushes his wire-framed glasses back up his nose. “I’m joining a gym.”
When no one says anything, he continues, “My brother and I are a lot alike, but he’s the muscular Asian athlete. That’s why girls like him. So why shouldn’t I work out and get swole, too?”
Trish shakes her head slowly, and I can tell she’s debating if she should speak or not. Bastian runs a hand through his hair and looks out at us. “Well? What do you guys think?” He holds up a thin arm and flexes. “I think it’ll be fun.”
“I’ll work out with you,” Emory says, dropping his pizza crust back onto his plate. “It will be fun.”
“I don’t know man,” Trish finally says. She sighs and slinks down into her desk chair, her Nikes sticking out into the circle between our desks. “You’re a cute kid, Bastian. You don’t need to put all this energy into trying to look better. Girls should like you because of you, not because of some muscles.”
“But working hard to get in shape will help his self-esteem,” Emory says. “Which will help with his dating life.”
“Or it’ll make him a cocky jerk who thinks he’s too good to settle down,” I mutter, images of Nate working out in his garage flying through my mind.
The Breakup Support Group Page 12