“Great,” Dad says, tapping the wall twice before he disappears behind it. “Love ya’ll,” he calls out as he walks away.
I lean back into my chair, hoping a few hours of Downton Abbey will pull me out of this Emory high. In a way, I’m as loopy as my mom right now. Boys are just as powerful of a drug as anesthesia. Fortunately for her, Mom’s high will wear off by morning.
I don’t think I’ll be so lucky.
Emory and I have never been texting friends, at least not in any way that comforts me over the weekend. If we had been the kind of friends who texted frequently throughout the day, then I’d know for sure that he’s avoiding me. As it is, I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling late Sunday night, and I don’t know if not hearing from him is normal or what.
I’d at least expected some kind of text telling me I did a great job during our fake date. Maybe some encouragement to get myself back out there, or a group text to the support group bragging about how well I pulled off going to the homecoming dance. But all I’ve got is crickets.
And about five million texts from Ciara, gushing over her date with Trey. I do my best to throw myself into my friendship with Ciara, joining in her gushing about Trey’s insane gorgeousness and the way he holds open doors for her. I try to get excited about the possibly of meeting his college friends, and going to parties with them soon. I dote on Mom and watch a ton of television and try to stop wondering why Emory hasn’t texted.
Most of all, I tell myself that the knot in my chest is not exactly the same as it was when Nate dumped me.
On Monday morning, I traipse into first period English class a few seconds before the late bell rings. Though I try to pass it off as being fashionably late, I’d slept through both of my alarms, and now I feel like I’m in a fog as I make my way to my desk on the far side of the room. Emory is in his usual desk, right next to mine, but I don’t look over. If he’s playing it cool, I am too.
Mr. Wang launches into a lecture on Greek and Latin root words just seconds after the bell rings. I take out a notebook and open it to a new page, pretending that I’m psyched to take notes. Emory leans over, placing a hot cup of coffee on my desk. I look over at him, seeing an identical cup in his other hand. He’d stopped at the coffee cart.
“Thanks,” I say, meeting his eyes for the first time since he’d kissed me on my front porch.
He nods, one of those infuriating upward head motions that guys do so well. It doesn’t tell me a thing about what he’s feeling. But I guess that’s the point with Emory Underwood—he’s never feeling anything. At least nothing he’s going to say out loud.
“How was your weekend?” I ask as we get swallowed into the current of students after first period.
He hitches his backpack up onto his shoulders. “Boring. Yours?”
“Same,” I say. This is so weird. And although I’d spent all weekend dreamily lusting after Date Night Emory, now I’d give anything to have things to back to normal between us. Friends. People who can laugh in the hallways and have simple conversations as if there’s not a dying elephant filling the space between them.
“See ya,” he says as we reach the staircase that takes us to two different classes. He does that stupid head nod thing again.
“Yeah,” I say, watching as he disappears around a hallway. “You too.”
Ciara grabs me after physics, looping her arm into mine. She smells of perfume for once, instead of nail polish. “I am going crazy,” she says, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out in a long sigh as we walk toward Ms. Meadow’s art room for lunch.
“Crazier than usual?” I tease.
She gives me a sarcastic shake of her head. “No. Crazy in love.”
“Blasphemy,” I say, putting a hand to my chest. “How dare you say the wretched L word.”
“You’re right. I’ll change it to lust. It’s a better, less committal L word.”
“So I take it things with Trey are still going well?”
She smiles, her eyes twinkling with what can only be described as a mixture of both L words. “Let me do the talking, okay? Bas will flip his shit if he knows too much.”
I mime zipping my lips closed and follow her into the art room.
My favorite chair in the circle of desks is open, so I toss my backpack into it and head over to get some pizza, all while keeping an eye on the door for Emory. I’m dying to know what he’ll say about our fake date night.
“Hurry up,” Bastian says, shooing us away from the pizza. He’s wearing dark blue skinny jeans that appear to have an ironed crease down the center. They match his navy Polo shirt. “We have a ton of ground to cover today. Ciara said she has no less than a fifteen-minute speech on her progress and Sequoia had an intense family dinner at China Inn where her ex’s family saw her and started some drama. And Trish,” he says, his eyes going wide while he points at her. “Sit up straighter. You’re not going to slouch your way out of this meeting again. I refuse to let you slip through the cracks.”
Trish flicks the golden hair out of her eyes, staring at Bastian for a full five seconds before she shows any emotion. Her mouth opens as if she’s going to say something, but then she closes it and wraps her fingers around the front of the desktop, pulling herself into a sitting position. She hasn’t taken any pizza today. The dark circles under her eyes make me think that food probably isn’t on her mind.
“Emory’s not here yet,” I say, taking a seat next to the notably empty desk next to mine. “We all know he won’t want to miss Ciara’s fifteen-minute gush fest.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, and I return the gesture. Bastian writes something in his notebook and then looks up at me as if just remembering that I had spoken. “Oh, guess I forgot to tell you guys. Emory won’t be here anymore. He quit the support group.”
“What?”
Xavier tosses his hands in the air. “What can you do, Isla? I mean, you can lead a horse to water …”
Bastian nods. “But you can’t make him stop breaking hearts.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next month passes by with each day a mere clone of the one before it. Sure, the leaves on the massive live oak tree in our front yard turn brown and trickle down to the grass, making Dad constantly hint that I should help him rake them up. Mom’s sliced open hand is mostly healed and school progresses as teachers dole out a new, boring lesson each week.
But events on Emory Island are stuck in an infinite loop. He brings me coffee each morning, gives me that smile that must mean good morning, or hello, or here’s some coffee.
I take the paper cup, smile back, say something like, “Ugh, Mondays.”
He walks me to the stairwell where we part ways for second period and then I hang out at lunch with the friends who haven’t abandoned me and our support group, and later I walk into gym class knowing he won’t be there. I play pickup basketball games with the girls, or jog alone, or go geocaching in the field behind the school each day. Emory goes to the weight room with the guys during gym now. Rinse, repeat.
We never talk about much unless the weather sucks or Mr. Wang’s speech was weirdly interesting that day. Every day comes and goes just like the one before it.
What the hell did I do wrong?
“Rabbit, rabbit ladies,” Coach Carter says at the start of gym class. It’s November first, and she says that at the start of every new month. I don’t know why, and no one has ever asked. Her pen bobs through the air as she counts all of the girls sitting in rows on the gymnasium floor. She gets to the end of my row and goes to the next one, frowning after counting a few people. “Where’s Ruby?”
Someone says Ruby is out sick, and Coach Carter marks it on her clipboard. When she’s finished taking attendance she gives us a look over, drill sergeant style. “Ladies, you are not dressed appropriately for the weather outside, so we’ll be doing free choice in the gym today. Keep in mind, it’s supposed to be a record cold this month, so take your dirty gym clothes home for once and switch them out for
pants and long sleeves. We’re about to start running again. You can’t run if you aren’t warm and you can’t pass the class without at least a twelve-minute mile.”
I sigh, leaning my chin on my hand and tuning out the rest of her lecture on the art of dressing for weather that’s colder than what the average Texan is used to. Somewhere across the hall and through another door, Emory hangs out in the weight room. I want to sit here and wonder if he’s thinking about me. If he thinks this sudden turn in the way things were is normal, if he’s happy about it. But I can’t let myself think those things. That would be admitting that my stupid brain and even stupider heart have let him slip through my heartbreak force field and slither his way into my head. Just like he’s done with so many other girls before me. That’s just Emory. A snake. I have to keep telling myself all of the bad things about Emory. I can’t think about the way his lips felt on mine. No, I definitely can’t think about that.
On Friday, Ciara waits for me after school, leaning on the hood of my car with her arms crossed like she’s the guy in an eighties movie trying to win my affections back. If only she were someone else. I shrug the thought away.
“Hey there, bestie,” she says. The playful tone in her voice tells me there’s a little more she wants to say than just hello.
“Trey’s not picking you up today?” I ask, putting a hand to my chest. She’s wearing a grin the size of my car, so I know nothing bad has happened. Still, I gape at her in a scandalous way. “Is there any drama to report?”
“No, ma’am,” she says, sauntering over to the passenger side of the Civic. “Things are perfect with Trey. But I want some after school girl time. I don’t get to see my Isla as much now that I’m with Trey, and I refuse to be one of those girls who ditches friends for a guy.” We climb into my car, and she tosses her backpack in the backseat. “You free tonight?”
“You know I am,” I say, making a gagging sound. “Unlike someone in this car, I don’t have a hot college boyfriend taking me out every weekend.”
“No worries, Isla. You have a hot high school best friend—me,” she says, splaying out her fingers over her chest. “And you’ll be my other date to this party tonight. Kappa Theta Delta shindig. Trey invited us.”
Her eyes sparkle with anticipation, and her grin widens until I can see all of her teeth. She bites her bottom lip. “What do you think? Wanna go?”
“A frat party?” The invitation is cool, but I must say it in a weird voice because she shakes her head.
“It’s nothing like whatever you’re expecting,” she says. “Well, at least Trey promises it’s not like that. I’ve never been. This is the first time he’s invited me to meet his frat brothers so it’s kind of a huge deal.”
I crank the engine and turn on the heater, twisting the knob to the far right to get as much heat as possible. “I don’t mind going, but won’t you two just be making out the whole time? Why should I be a third wheel?”
“Because Trey is a finalist in their beer pong championship. He’ll be busy most of the night and told me I should bring you.”
“Beer pong championship, huh?” I roll my eyes and pull forward out of my parking space. “Sounds like quite the guy you’ve got there.”
The sarcasm is lost on her. “I know,” she says, dreamily as she stares out the passenger window. “Trey is perfect. I don’t even care if this ends badly like every other relationship I’ve ever had. It’ll be worth it.”
When we get to Ciara’s house, she holds out her hand when I reach for the keys in the ignition. “Don’t turn off the car. I’ll just be a second.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Since when are you ever just a second?”
She grabs her backpack and pulls it into the front seat with her. “Trust me, I’ll be quick. Mom can’t say no to me spending the night at your house if you’re here in the driveway and all.”
“Seems like she can still say no,” I say, lifting an eyebrow.
“Not if I’m in and out before she realizes what’s going on,” she says, smirking. “Plus I might have told her we’ve been hanging out like every day of the week so she wouldn’t know I was with Trey. It would take hours to brief you on all the lies I told about what we did, so you absolutely cannot come inside and talk to her.”
“Tsk tsk,” I say, shaking my head. “You say things like that, and you know the first thing that pops into my head?”
“Bastian’s annoying voice saying something about Trey being a bad influence?”
“Yep.” We laugh, and she throws her braided hair over her shoulder.
“Hang tight. I’ll be right out.”
I shouldn’t be allowed to feel annoyance when five minutes have passed, and Ciara still hasn’t popped out of her front door, bags of overnight clothes in her hand. I knew she would take forever. It’s not the waiting that bothers me—it’s being stuck in a car alone with only my own thoughts to keep me company. My own thoughts are being unkind right now.
They can’t stop thinking about him.
I’m on the track to hitting up my first frat party tonight, in what will surely be a gorgeous Ciara-done hairstyle and manicured nails, and we personally know the beer pong champion, and we’ll be surrounded by equally hot guys needing to unwind after a week of college classes. It’s the makings of a perfect Friday so why is he in my head?
It’s Emory’s fault that I feel this way. He said we were friends, and then he took me on a fake date and gave me the worst mind fuck ever. I stare at the digital clock on my car’s radio and watch two minutes tick by. I tell myself that if Ciara’s not back by the third … no fourth … minute then I’ll text Emory.
Five minutes pass, each one like a digital sword of anxiety slicing through my stomach. I try to think of all the things we’ve discussed in the Break Up Support Group over the last three and a half months. All of Bastian’s well-meaning advice, and those silly motivational quotes he says before and after each meeting. I think of Trish and her chill attitude, how she doesn’t let anything get to her besides the one girl she can’t stop loving. Xavier, and his ridiculous positive outlook on every chance he takes. At least he’s putting himself out there, taking chances. It’s better than what I’m doing, sitting here in misery wondering why things have suddenly grown so weird between me and Emory. I feel that somewhere in the universe, there is an Emory and an Isla who can go back to being the friends they used to be. I just need the right compass to get there.
I draw in a deep breath, look at the Stanton’s front door one last time, and take out my cell phone, typing the first thing that comes to me.
Isla: Hey remember that time we were friends? That was fun.
I look back at Ciara’s front door and then at the clock on my radio. She’s been in there seventeen minutes. Emory replies a few seconds later. My heart leaps into my throat as I stare at his name on my phone, suddenly scared to click on the message.
Emory: We’re still friends.
My thumbs fly across the screen before I can talk myself out of it.
Isla: Doesn’t feel like it.
The passenger door opens with a whoosh that drowns out my thoughts, and I nearly drop my phone. It buzzes, but Ciara sticks her head inside, handing me a cosmetic bag that’s twice the size of her normal backpack. I slide the phone back into my purse and save his reply for later. I’m not sure I can handle him telling me to get over it, or denying that anything is weird. And what did I expect him to say anyway?
Why yes, things are weird, and it’s because you like me as more than friends, so I’m staying away from you, you creepy lunatic?
I draw in a ragged breath. Maybe I should throw my phone off a cliff so I’ll never have to know what he replied. But there are no cliffs in Deer Valley. And Mom would probably kill me.
Ciara spends the entire drive to my house complaining about how overprotective her mother has become since Ciara turned sixteen last year. I nod along, but I’m not paying attention. I make it all the way home and into my bedroom before taking out my
phone, my hands trembling with the fear of facing the truth behind my lock screen.
“Can I borrow your iron?” Ciara says, pulling out a wrinkled mini dress from her bag.
“Sure. Check the laundry room.” I slide open my phone and scan the message, figuring I’ll get it over with and then get on with my night. If I’m lucky, whatever he has to say will officially piss me off, and I can just be done with him.
Emory: Sorry :(
I freeze in place, my socks on the purple fluffy rug in front of my bed. The single word coaxes warm tears from the corners of my eyes, and the burning sensation makes it hard to breathe. If I blink, it’s all over.
“You okay?” Ciara asks from the corner of my bed. She’s holding her wrinkled dress and peering at me with a worried expression.
Yeah. Only my mouth won’t say the word because there’s a lump in my throat. I manage to nod once, and then the floodgates open and I burst into tears.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Whoa.” Ciara rises, still clutching the dress which she then tosses to the bed. Her gaze lowers to the phone in my hand. “What happened?”
I shake my head, willing the knot in my chest to go away. “Nothing,” I say, shoving the phone in my back pocket. “I’m fine. Don’t you need an iron for that?”
She casts a glance back toward her wrinkled dress and then stares at me for a moment. “You’re crying, Isla. What’s wrong?”
My shoulders lift and stay there as I try to make my voice convincing enough to tell her that I am completely fine. And then I start crying again. Big, watery tears that spring from my eyes as if being held back for the last week has turned them into an unstoppable force. I shake my head and try to turn around, cry into my hands and be alone, but Ciara grabs my shoulder and pulls me into a hug.
The Breakup Support Group Page 19