“Really? Wow.”
His expression turns a little guilty, and he leans in, his hand grazing my elbow as he whispers into my ear, “Real Emory took dance lessons from grandma in Louisville, Kentucky. But your fake Date Night Emory is well traveled.”
“I see,” I say quietly, feeling like a complete idiot. This entire night is a lie, I remind myself. A prescription written by my sixteen-year-old untrained therapist.
I down the rest of my raspberry blue punch in one gulp, hoping that maybe it is spiked, just a little bit. Anything to take my mind off the fact that I am definitely falling hard for Emory, or excuse me, Fake Date Night Emory. Fake Emory doesn’t have a past of dating a million girls. Fake Emory looks unbelievably hot in that tailored suit and tie. Real Isla can see herself spending a lifetime with Fake Emory.
I sigh.
And then Ciara’s bright white dress pops into view. She grins wildly and waves at me as she makes her way through the crowd, a tall African-American guy who looks as uncomfortable as the teacher chaperones, trailing along behind her.
“Hey,” she says, drawing out the single word as she approaches. She throws her arms around me and gives me a quick hug, making sure to keep our hair and makeup off of each other so it doesn’t get ruined.
Her eyes roam down Emory’s body, and she slaps a hand to her hip. “Damn, Underwood, you clean up nicely.”
“As do you,” he says. He holds out a hand to her date. “I’m Emory,” he says.
“Trey,” her date replies, shaking his hand. His voice is deep and even under his suit I can tell he’s muscular. “Are you in college, too?”
“Nope,” Emory says. “Still a senior here, unfortunately.”
“Damn, Cee. You promised I wouldn’t be the only old guy here,” he says playfully, wrapping his arm around Ciara’s waist.
She gives him a not-so-innocent pout of the lips. “The teachers are pretty old,” she says, sliding a finger down his chest. “Maybe you could go talk about old people stuff with them. Senior citizen discounts, maybe? Which vitamins help protect your old bones?”
“I’d rather just dance with the prettiest girl here,” he says in that low and sexy voice of his. Even I get the shivers, and he’s not my date.
Ciara turns to me with an eyes wide expression that makes her look like she’d never be the kind of girl to be in the Break Up Support Group. In this moment, she looks entirely too happy to have ever suffered a heartbreak. “Sorry, Isla. I promise we’ll hang out soon.”
I wave her away with my hand. “Go dance and have fun. We’ll meet up later.”
She winks at me and then wraps both of her arms around Trey’s massive bicep. “Take me to the dance floor,” she coos, batting her eyelashes at him.
“That was so not the girl I thought I knew,” Emory says, watching them walk away.
“I think maybe this is why she’s always getting heartbroken,” I say, finishing my drink. “She falls too hard too fast for guys she barely knows. And if it doesn’t work out, then she’s hurt.”
He considers this and shakes his head. “Still, it’s better to have taken that risk than to have sat on the sidelines. You never know when it’ll work out.”
“I guess that’s a nice, if not risky way to look at things.”
His hand cups my cheek and tilts my face up. He is so gorgeous it’s hard to think straight. “Isn’t that why you took a risk and went out with me tonight?” he asks, his voice so low I can barely hear him over the music playing from the speakers. His hand slides up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I have to remind myself to breathe. “Don’t we both want to know if things could work out between us?”
My breath catches in my throat. “Yes,” I manage to choke out, and it earns me a devilish grin. Emory lowers his hand, and a rush of cool air replaces the warmth where his fingers had been. I close my eyes for just a moment, biting back all of that stupid emotion that had just swelled up inside of me.
It’s a fake date.
This is all fake.
Of course he doesn’t want to know if things would work out for us. I don’t think the real Emory would care about how things worked out with anyone.
Ciara finds her way back to us after a couple of songs and, although I hadn’t thought it was possible, there’s an even bigger pep in her step now that she’s spent more time with her date. She fixes a glass of punch and makes the same comment about hoping it’s been spiked. To our disappointment, the punch is just as punchy as ever, probably thanks to the librarian, Mrs. Constance, who has been hovering around the table all night.
Emory asks Trey about college life, and he immediately goes into talking about rush week for Kappa Theta Delta. I grab Ciara’s hand. “Want to sneak off to the restroom with me?”
She nods. “I’m sure I’m sweating through my makeup. Let’s go.”
Even the bathroom has been decorated to theme, with blue and silver sparkling lights adorning each mirror over the sinks. There’s a teacher wearing a navy blue pantsuit standing in the corner, offering mints and spritzes of perfume, but we all know she’s here to keep the potential drug use or shots from a hidden flask at bay. I’m starting to wonder why we even bother going to dances like this when they’re as guarded as a prison ward.
A sneaked sip of tequila would do wonders to the butterflies in my stomach right about now.
“So how’s the date so far?” Ciara asks, diving into her satin clutch to retrieve her powder compact. “Mine’s going better than expected. Trey didn’t bitch at all about the long drive to pick me up.”
I peer into my reflection between the decorative tulle draped on either side of the mirror. My makeup has held; my hair still looks like it was stolen from the pages of a fashion magazine. Not bad.
Two girls walk into the bathroom, underclassmen by the looks of excitement on their faces. They’re holding hands and giggling, their faces bent toward each other, sharing the juiciness of a secret. This is no doubt the greatest night of their lives so far. I remember those first few dances with Nate. Lame high school dances or not—it felt magical at the time.
“Well?” Ciara says, nudging me with her elbow while she reapplies a soft pink lip gloss. “Having fun?”
I nod. I look hot, and my date looks even hotter. Plus he’s nice. The music isn’t too bad, and the finger foods are actually appetizing. My new best friend Ciara is with me, and none of the people from my old school are here to ruin it. This night has every ingredient of a perfect date night recipe. So it would be stupid to deny that I’m having fun.
“Yeah, it’s fun. You know, for a fake date,” I say, lowering my voice on the last two words. No one needs to know that my magical night with Emory Underwood is a scam. The jealous looks from girls who see me on his arm haven’t quit all night, and it’s weirdly satisfying to be the object of envy.
“Don’t say it like that,” she says, scrunching her face. She closes the little metal clasp on her clutch purse and slides it back across her body by the tiny chain strap. “You don’t have to be in love with everyone you date.” She grabs my arm and pulls me back toward the door. “Girl, we’re just faking it until we make it. Starting with tonight.”
The rest of the evening is a whirlwind not unlike Van Gough’s real Starry Night. Ciara and I dance our butts off to the fast songs and thanks to her contagious party mood, I find a way to truly let loose and enjoy the moment. Ciara has a way of throwing herself into everything she does with a passion like no other. On the outside, you’d think she’d never be the kind of girl to hang out with us losers in the group, but really, her passion for all things she cares about is also her downfall. As we’re dancing like peppy weirdos to a Justin Bieber track, the current of people pushes us toward the edge of the dance floor, where Trey and Emory are watching us from the sidelines.
Emory winks when our eyes meet, raising his glass to me. I put my hand to my mouth and blow him a quick kiss. And then I catch a split second of Ciara making eye contact with Trey, and all t
he pieces fall into place. She cares, more than anyone. She’s given her attention to this one guy, and I know without a doubt that she’ll do whatever will make him happy, so long as they’re happy together. That’s her downfall. Caring too much.
The Break Up Support Group isn’t just a bunch of losers. We’re people with heart, with a desire to share our lives with someone who loves us just as much as we love them. That’s not really a bad thing.
I was an excellent girlfriend to Nate. In all ways that high school relationships matter, I was the best. I doted on him, I stayed loyal in every way. I was always there he wanted me, and I kept my distance when he needed bro time. I gave in when he wanted to push the boundaries of our limited sexual experience just so he’d stay happy with me. And yet none of that mattered in the end.
Tonight wasn’t about winning over my date, or even trying to keep him interested. It’s all about having fun and pretending I’ve only just met the guy who waits for me at the side of the gymnasium. After the song ends, I stride across the dance floor, confidently following my instincts, a coy smirk stitched on my face as I approach Emory.
“That was hot,” he says, leaning forward and letting his lips linger near my ear. “Next time you should dance like that when we’re the only two people in the room.”
Damn he knows how to make a girl’s heart skip a beat. I lean into him and decide to play along for yet another time tonight. “Maybe we could slip away and find an empty room?”
“How about ice cream? The Creamery is open until eleven.”
“Sounds good,” I say, forcing myself to look away before I get lost in his eyes. I grab his wrist and slide up his sleeve to peer at his watch. “Blah,” I say with a frown.
He frowns and checks the time. It’s eleven-fifteen. Feeling emboldened after embracing the fakeness of the night, I slide a finger along his jaw, tilting his head toward me. “Maybe next time?” I ask.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, holding my hand in place on his cheek. His other arm slides around my back, and I’m pulled into him, our bodies pressing together from chest to thighs. A warm tingle spreads through my stomach, and my teeth dig into my bottom lip on instinct. “Absolutely,” he whispers, his lips so freaking close to mine I think I might burst. He smells like raspberry blue punch, and I need need need to know if he tastes like it, too.
Our bodies vibrate. It takes me a second to hop off my cloud of lustful thoughts and realize that my phone is going crazy in my dress’s hidden pocket. I exhale. “Sorry,” I say, sliding my hand into my pocket to shut it off.
“Better not be another guy,” Emory says with a playful smile.
“Never,” I say, trying like hell to bring back that pull of desire that had vaporized between us when my phone went off. It goes off again, the vibrations somehow seeming angrier this time.
Emory’s brows narrow. “Maybe you should answer that.”
With a sigh, I pull the phone from my pocket. Dad’s calling. I hold up a finger to Emory, not minding that I need to step aside to answer the call. Seeing my dad’s smiling face on my home screen is the biggest buzzkill ever.
I answer the call and slink into a far corner of the room, as far away from the noise as possible. “Hello?”
“Honey, don’t panic,” Dad says.
“What the hell does that mean?” A thousand horrible things fly through my mind in the second it takes him to answer.
“Mom had an accident in the kitchen, cut herself pretty bad. She’s fine, but we just left the emergency room at Regional, and they put her on so many drugs she is kind of uh, begging for you.”
“What? She’s okay, though?”
“She is, and they got her finger stitched back together, but she’s a mess, Isla. I didn’t want to call you, but I think I’m losing the battle of trying to take her mind off you. The doctors said it’ll be hours until the drugs are out of her system, and she needs to rest and stay calm. Her head is all messed up, and she’s acting like you’re still a baby, and she needs to see you.”
“I’ll be right there,” I say, smiling despite the tragic circumstances. When I turn around, Emory is standing right there, and I jump.
“Sorry,” he says, holding up his hands. “You looked kind of freaked out so I rushed over here. What’s going on?”
“My mom went to the ER. She cut her hand and needs me. I’m sorry,” I say, looking around the crowd of people. “Maybe I can get a teacher to take me home so your night isn’t ruined.”
“Isla, I’m taking you to see her.” He grabs my hand, his expression serious. “Do you want to say bye to Ciara first?”
I shake my head. She’s on the dance floor, and I’ll just text her on the ride over there. “Thank you, Emory.”
“Of course,” he says, taking my hand.
On the drive home, I tell Emory everything my dad had said during our short conversation. For a while, it feels like the walls are down and that Date Night Emory has slipped back into normal Emory. And then he pulls into my driveway and puts a hand over mine.
Normal Emory doesn’t do that.
“I had a great time with you Isla,” he says.
I swallow and struggle for a reply, but he opens his car door before I’ve said anything. I scramble out too, suddenly wondering why he thinks it’s necessary to leave his vehicle. “I had a good time, too,” I say, rushing over to his side of the car. “Guess I should go check on my mom now.”
“Relax,” he says, rubbing a finger over his eyebrow. He taps the hood of his car, where the engine is still running. “I’m just walking you to the door. Can you blame a guy for wanting to spend every second possible with you?”
I scoff and focus on the cracks in the driveway. “Do girls actually fall for that crap?”
He stops in front of my front door and gazes down at me. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t exactly tried it on anyone but you.”
I’m about to call his bullshit for what it is, but this isn’t a real guy standing in front of me, his gaze all but smoldering my dress off. I play along, batting my eyelashes and trying to imagine a world where a real date actually goes like this. If all dates went this well, I’d have no problem putting myself back out there.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say. My hand reaches out on its own accord, touching the blue tie in front of me.
Emory takes a step closer, the toes of his shiny dress shoes touching my ballet flats. “Can I call you tomorrow?”
My stomach flutters. I nod. Tomorrow feels too far away. “Goodnight,” I say.
And then his lips are on mine. Lightly at first, his kiss is more of a question, his fingers sliding down my arm in a way that asks if he should continue. I breathe in the citrus smell of his cologne, taste the sourness of the punch on his lips. My hand closes around his tie, and I lean forward and pull him closer all at once, needing to feel his body next to mine again, needing to know what a real kiss from Emory feels like.
I’m light-headed and heavy all at the same time. Emory’s fingers are fire as they graze across my skin, leaving a trail of bittersweet longing wherever he touches. I slide my hand up his neck and around his shoulder, tugging him closer. He turns, pressing my back against the front door, his hands holding himself over me while his tongue grazes across my bottom lip.
I am completely lost in Emory Underwood. And then he pulls away, so slowly it’s agonizing. His hair falls in his eyes, and I want to brush it away, but I’m stuck frozen against my own front door. My breath is shallow, panting in time with my rapid heartbeat.
Emory smiles, and I think I smile back.
“Goodnight, Isla.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mom beams at me with glassy eyes. She’s all set up in the recliner in the living room, blankets piled on top of her and two plush pillows behind her head. “My baby,” she says with slurred words, reaching a hand out to me.
I let her take my hand, and I sit on the armrest. “Hey, Mom. You okay?”
Her injured hand is wrapped in a ton
of gauze and foam, her index and middle finger are held out straight, but are so covered in bandages that I can’t see anything. She nods eagerly and then her eyes drift to where my dad stands in front of us, arms crossed over his chest. She makes an overly dramatic frown and scrunches her face at him. “Your father,” she says, stumbling over her words in a way that reminds me of a two-year-old, “It’s being a … a …”
“Buttface?” I supply for her, going along with this childish dreamlike trance she’s in.
She shakes her head. “Dick.”
Dad and I laugh, and he kneels down, putting a hand on her knee. “Honey, I’m just trying to take care of you. The drugs are making you loopy.”
She shakes her head. “He wouldn’t let me see my baby,” she says, grabbing my arm with her good hand. “I just wanted to see you.” She pouts. “I could have died.”
“You weren’t going to die,” Dad says. “And I told Jane that our daughter was having fun at a school dance and needed to be left alone.”
“See?” Mom says, looking at me with a sudden sobriety in her eyes. “He’s being a dick.”
“I’m here now, Mom. Do you need anything?”
She shakes her head. “Just you.”
“Okay then,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s fifteen minutes until midnight. “Want to watch Netflix for a while?”
“Yes,” she says, handing me the remote control.
“I’m going to get to bed,” Dad says, bending to give Mom a kiss, which she returns in between grimacing at him. “Isla, make sure you remember everything she says so we can make fun of her for it when the drugs have worn off.” He winks at me.
“Will do,” I say, grabbing one of Mom’s blankets and moving to the chair next to her.
“By the way,” Dad says, slipping back into the living room. “How was your night?”
The entire night steamrolls into the forefront of my mind, and I can’t believe I found a way to forget about Emory for these last few minutes. Heat rushes into my cheeks, and my lips tingle with the memory of Emory’s lips on mine. I glance at Mom, pretending to care about the fluffiness of her pillows. “It was fine. I had fun.”
The Breakup Support Group Page 18