“Tell momma what’s wrong,” she says soothingly, patting the back of my head.
I chuckle. “You’re not my mom,” I say into her shoulder.
She pulls me back, gripping me by the shoulders, and stares into my eyes. “It’s what my mom always says, and it’s pretty damn comforting. Now, take a deep breath and tell momma what’s wrong. If you don’t want to go to the party, we don’t have to.”
“That’s not it,” I say, reaching back and touching my phone through the denim of my jeans. I stare at the floor, focusing on Ciara’s silver toenail polish and the purple fuzzy rug. “I just got a text that kind of … I don’t know. It just bothered me, but I’m over it now.”
She puts a hand on her hip and gives me another stare that she probably also got from her mom. “You are not getting off that easy, girl. Who texted you? What did it say and do I need to kick someone’s ass?”
I smile. After being forced to attend a new school and start all over with my social life, I hit the jackpot landing Ciara as a best friend. “If I tell you,” I say, realizing with a shock of horror that I’m about to reveal this embarrassing secret to her, “You’ll think I’m an idiot. You’ll probably lecture me more than I’ve lectured myself in these last few days.”
She sits on the foot of my bed and pats the comforter next to her. “Now I have to know. This sounds like some grade-A drama. Go on, sit down.”
I draw in a deep breath, staring at that empty spot on the bed. If I do this—if I sit down and tell her my deepest secret—then it’ll all be real. I can’t go back and pretend I never liked Emory after this. The pain in my chest makes the decision for me. Maybe words of comfort are what I need right now. She’ll understand, right?
I sit and stare at my palms, my hands wringing together. “After homecoming, it doesn’t seem like Emory and I are friends anymore. I told him it bothered me just now, and all he said was ‘sorry.’”
The high arches in Ciara’s eyebrows flatten into two concerned lines. “This is about heartbreaker boy? Damn. That’s the last thing I expected you to say.”
I shake my head and wipe away more tears. “I know. It’s so stupid. We were just supposed to be friends and then at that stupid dance …”
“It felt like more than friends,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. All of the air in the room seems to grow cold and empathetic to my pain. “And then you realized it was all just a stupid date, and none of it was real.”
I’d thought that telling my sorrows would make me feel better. If anything, it just magnifies my pain, stretching it out until it fills not only me but Ciara as well.
“Oh, honey, no,” she says, shaking her head. Her hand takes mine, and she grips it so hard I almost wince. “No, no, no.”
I look over at her, seeing her own watery eyes gazing back at me. “You let him get to you. You let him wriggle in, with his charming dark eyes and that slick hair and devilish grin. He is the total heartbreaker package, and you fell for it hook, line, and sinker.”
I snort and wipe at my eyes. “I practically bought the extended warranty.”
“The Heartbreak Special.”
She pulls me into another hug, wrapping her arms around me until I finally stop sobbing. “This is not your fault, Isla. And, not to sound like I’m defending him because I’m not—but Emory was just doing a job that night. He probably thought he was helping you. I don’t think he was being an asshole on purpose if that helps at all.”
“I know he wasn’t,” I say. My mind goes automatically back to that night, to the way he charmed my parents and held my hand and danced like a gentleman. “He was just being nice. He thought he was helping me. And now he’s just been distant and weird ever since the dance.” I draw in a ragged breath. Ciara’s pained expression matches my own. “I hate it, C. I hate that I fell for him, and I know he knows how I feel. He could probably sense it a mile away that night. And now he’s avoiding me so as not to hurt me, but the damage is already done.”
She rubs her hands up and down my arms. “I know how to fix this mess.”
I give her a wary look. “Enlighten me.”
Her gaze turns sultry, her brown eyes taking on a life of their own. “We’re going to find you a college guy.”
Ciara is stunning in the ironed version of her hot pink mini dress. Her long braided hair is pulled back halfway with a matching pink clip, and she did her own makeup in front of my vanity, adding a shimmery glow of happiness to her normally pretty features. She wears black satin ballet flats and a simple golden necklace.
“You look more summer than November,” I say, leaning toward my mirror to apply some lip gloss to my otherwise boring face. Just a little matte powder and mascara for me tonight. Ciara wanted to do me up like a princess, but I feel like if I’m going to snag a college guy tonight, it should be with a somewhat more realistic version of myself. Besides, I’m over trying too hard. Now I’m not sure I want to try at all.
“Good, because summer is sexier than stupid November,” she says, sliding her purse over her shoulder. “Ready?”
I’m wearing dark skinny jeans with a little rip in the thigh, ruby red heels and a low-cut red tank top beneath a black cardigan. I feel like I should be holding a martini and complaining about … whatever it is fancy people complain about. I’d rather be in my Converse, but if Ciara couldn’t get me in a dress, she got me in the next best thing: heels.
“Let’s do it,” I say, plastering a smug smile on my face. My voice is so convincing I almost believe it myself.
Kappa Theta Delta is a frat house that’s a couple miles away from Sam Houston State University, buried on a downward slope just at the end of a dead-end street. We park on the side of the road, behind the growing line of cars. Some of the tallest pine trees I’ve ever seen line the long driveway, their needles and pinecones littering the grass below.
Music thumps in the distance, and all of the lights are on in the two-story building that’s made of red brick. Four white columns beam up at us in the dusk, and all of the square windows are bordered with crisp black shutters. I never thought a beer pong championship would be held in a place that looks so … presidential.
We walk up the steps onto the massive wraparound porch, and I raise my fist to the front door. Ciara grabs my wrist. “Nope, that’s amateur.” She throws me a confident smirk. “Girlfriends are VIPs and VIPS let themselves in.”
She makes a big show of twisting the doorknob, and we walk into the tiled foyer of the frat house. No one really notices, and the disappointment of not receiving a grand entrance makes Ciara’s shoulders slump. Still, we’re here, and it’s time to party. Time to forget about Emory and Nate and every stupid thing that’s ever made my heart ache.
I wasn’t expecting it to look like a frat party film set in here, but it kind of does. People are everywhere, all drinking from Solo cups—orange, for the school’s colors—and shimmying to the music, making out in armchairs that have seen better days. A few people puff on e-cigs, and every girl here is wearing summer clothing instead of November clothing. Now I feel kind of stupid in jeans.
“Okay, if I wasn’t going to cosmetology school instead of university,” Ciara says, taking my hand as we weave through the throngs of partygoers, “I’d join a sorority. I could get used to Fridays like this.”
A man steps out in front of us, blocking our path to the back door. He’s wearing only black biker shorts and tall Nike socks with green stripes on them, and he’s carrying a plastic tray that looks like it was swiped from the food court at the mall. On it, are half a dozen orange Solo cups.
“Drinks, my ladies,” he says, giving us each a cup. “No one suffers without a drink at my party.” He winks and then he’s gone.
I peer into the glass and smell the golden liquid.
“It’s just Bud Light,” Ciara says, tossing her head back and gulping. “Shit is gross, so down it fast.”
I do as she says, draining my cup in a few seconds. My stomach clenches with revulsio
n, but I swallow down the last sip and smile. “Where’s that boy toy of yours?” I ask, already feeling more confident as if a cup of low-calorie beer has magically metabolized in my system already. “I’m ready to watch some of Texas’ finest beer pong.”
“Why is that, doll?” a voice says into my ear. “Are you looking to join the competition?”
I turn, completely aware that his sudden appearance and seductive whispering in my ear hadn’t scared the crap out of me. Maybe the beer has done its job this quickly after all. Or maybe, this is what I was hoping for all along—the chance to flirt with a warm body, not caring who he is or if he likes me back.
He’s tall and smirky, in that jock kind of way that Nate always had about him. He’s too pale but makes up for it with a chest and arms with so much definition I kind of want to reach out and run a hand across his pecs. His SHSU shirt clings tightly to his body, and he’s wearing black sweatpants.
“Finally, someone dressed for the cold-ass weather,” I say, inwardly cringing when I realize the first words out of my mouth were a dumb joke.
“I’m David.” He shifts the two unopened beer cans to one hand and holds out the other for me to shake.
“Isla,” I say, peering up into his eyes with my best flirty impression. “Are one of those beers for me?” I ask, pouty face in full effect.
His eyes crinkle, and he pops the top. A sprinkle of freckles dot his cheeks and makes him look a little boyish, despite the smell of alcohol on his breath. His hand slides over mine, as he holds my orange cup steady and pours the entire can into it. Then he crushes it in his fist and tosses it over our heads. I glance back and see it bounce on the rim of a blue plastic recycle bin, then fall inside.
“So what brought you to KTD’s championship party?” he asks, licking his bottom lip before taking a sip of his beer. “Or should I say who?”
“My friend,” I say, turning to where Ciara had been standing just a second ago. “She’s probably off filling the position of Trey’s number one cheerleader.”
David nods, and then his eyes light up. “The high school chick?”
The way he says it, like her being still in high school is some kind of elite status should probably make me wary. But I have that same elite status, too, and for once I want to be the desirable one. “Yep. That’s her. We go to Granite Hills High together.”
“Really,” he drawls, leaning his shoulder against the wall, his college-aged eyes raking up and down my body. “I went to Granite Hills. The girls weren’t as pretty back then.”
I take a long drink from my cup. “You’re gonna have to come up with something better than that, David.” I gesture toward the people in the living room. “I mean, maybe one of those idiot girls would fall for a line that cheesy, but I won’t.”
“Ahh,” he says, chuckling. “You’re hard to get. I like that.”
“Making observations of my personality also won’t win me over,” I say. This is fun. Maybe he’s just screwing around with me, but for once in my life I feel like the cat dangling a piece of cheese in front of a mouse, instead of the pathetic girl who is desperate for attention. And David seems to like it this way. Looks like I did learn something from Emory after all.
His feet shuffle forward, bringing us so close I can smell the alcohol on his breath. “How about this. Play me in a game of beer pong. If I win, you go on a date with me next Friday. If I lose …” His lips slide to the side of his mouth, and he glances around, his eyes lost in concentration. “If I lose, you pick any guy you want in this party, and I’ll set you up with him.”
“Sounds like an easy bet for you,” I say, tracing my finger over the letters in the center of his shirt. “It’s like you know I’ll lose and be stuck going on a date with you.”
“We could do another bet if you’d like?”
I let my finger trail down his shirt and then I take another sip of liquid courage. “No, let’s play. I like my terrible odds.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I lost the game of beer pong.
It was the first time I’d ever played it, but my intuition was fairly confident that tossing incredibly lightweight ping pong balls into cups of beer was the kind of talent I didn’t possess, and no amount of practice would ever make me a respectable player. Fine with me, I won in the end. I won the cute college guy as my date on Friday night.
This time, it feels like the real deal, like biting on a gold coin and there’s no chocolate inside. Emory was merely a foil-covered piece of candy, masquerading as a date. My forthcoming night with David won’t leave me reeling in an ocean of useless feelings because this time, my date actually likes me, and although he’s not really my type, I can’t seem to make myself care.
When Emory hands me a fresh cup of coffee from the coffee cart on Monday morning, I’m feeling particularly ballsy, especially since this is the first time we’ve spoken since his stupid apology text last Friday. It’s visceral, the urge to let him know I’m okay and that I’m no longer crushing on him. I can’t just wait around hoping he’ll ask how my weekend went, or ask if I have any plans this weekend because I know he won’t. We don’t really talk at all anymore.
I know Bastian wouldn’t approve, and he’d say something like healing comes from within, not from another guy’s approval, but I don’t care. I have a date. I am over Emory. And he needs to know that.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the coffee and wrapping both hands around it as if I’m incredibly grateful for the caffeine boost today.
“You’re welcome,” he says, pulling out the plastic stirrer from his own coffee and licking it clean. “It’s so cold outside, the frigid air is starting to take over the school.”
I nod, taking a sip. It is unusually cold for Texas weather, but that’s not why I’m pretending to be grateful for the coffee. “Didn’t get much sleep. David was texting me all freaking night.” I roll my eyes and shake my head like it’s just so annoying but what can you do?
Emory nods quickly, his gorgeous features remaining serene until Mr. Wang flips off the lights and makes everyone’s morning by saying we’re watching a movie today. I let out my breath in a huff of air and try not to pout. It was a total lie—David hadn’t texted me at all this weekend—but the deception was supposed to entice Emory into asking who David was.
And then I’d describe him as being a college guy who’s taking me out to a movie on Friday.
And then he’d make some kind of gesture of relief, and he could rest easy knowing that I’m no longer the stupid love-struck idiot who’d fallen for the siren song that is Emory Underwood. He wouldn’t have to feel bad anymore. I was trying to do him a favor.
But no matter how orchestrated the exchange was in my head, he didn’t fall for it. And although winter has come early to Granite Hills, the morning conversations for the next three days should have progressed into something more than Emory getting a weather alert on his phone and saying, “Wow, it’s going to be freezing temperatures tonight.”
I am dying for an opening to tell him about my date without making it seem like I’m bragging. In the other part of my life, the one where I spend lunches in room 114, I go through twice the effort to keep my mouth shut. Ciara and I had discussed it at length, and we both agree that I shouldn’t tell Bastian and the gang about my date with the guy I just met and, let’s face it, don’t know well at all.
Although they’d all been onboard with my fake homecoming date, Ciara and I were pretty sure they’d frown upon me jumping back into dating so soon, just like they had when she started gushing about Trey.
On Thursday night I’m plucked out of a blissful dream by the sound of my phone ringing. I sit up on my elbows, grab the phone from my nightstand and squint to make out the name on the bright screen. It’s Ciara, and it’s ten forty-five, and I’ve been asleep for half an hour.
“Hello?” I ask, clearing my throat so I’ll stop sounding like a frog. “Is everything okay?”
“Girl, everything is more than okay.” Her voice
is hushed and a little echoing, like she’s covering her mouth with her hand as she talks. “You’ll never believe what I just did.”
“I’m betting it has something to do with Trey?”
“Mmhmm.”
“It must have been something good if it has you speechless,” I say, blinking as my eyes adjust to the darkness of my bedroom.
“Mmmmmhmmm,” she hums, her tone getting all flirty.
“Did you and Trey hook up?”
She just giggles.
“Oh my God, are you doing it right now?”
“You wish, pervert!” We both laugh and then she launches into the story of how she finally had sex with the guy she’s been gaga over for months now.
“It was so romantic,” she says, her voice still low, probably so her mom won’t hear. “He turned off both of our phones and locked them away in the other room, saying he didn’t want anything to take his attention off me.”
“That is cute,” I say, feeling a pang of longing for someone to say the same thing to me.
“So your date’s tomorrow,” she says after half an hour of telling me every intimate and TMI detail about their lovemaking affair. “Did you ever get around to letting Emory know?”
I sigh, throw my head back onto my pillow. “No.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, a hint of devilish intent to her voice. “I told him in homeroom today. Well, yesterday. Whenever Thursday was since I’m pretty sure it’s past midnight now. Which means tonight is your date night!” She squeals excitedly but I’m too focused on the first thing she said to care about the second one.
“You told him about my date?”
“Hell yeah. He needs to know you’re no longer pining over him. So I casually mentioned that you’re going to see The End at Star Cinema with a hot quarterback from SHSU.”
“David plays football?” I ask, suddenly feeling a thousand times more desirable that a quarterback is into me.
The Breakup Support Group Page 20