by Lila Monroe
She’s the one I want to tell about everything.
I drive for an hour, not even noticing where I’m heading until I find myself pulling up at the same beach I took her to that day. I walk the shore, memories running through my mind. The time we spent together was special. I felt like the universe had delivered a second chance for us. But now, I know, nobody else is going to bring us together.
If I want her back, it’s all on me this time. Because Jackson was right: it was one thing to tell Katie I’m a different guy than I was five years ago. It’s another thing entirely to make her believe it.
I just hope to hell I’m not too late.
22
Katie
I’m fine. Absolutely, totally fine.
After all, I know how to deal with a breakup. I literally wrote the book on it! There’ll be no wallowing here, eating my body weight in ice cream and sobbing over “our” song. Been there, done that, accidentally shrunk the T-shirt in the dryer cycle. Nope, I’m not doing that. Not for Wes.
Not again.
“Holy cow,” April says, walking through the door after work. She’s got Natalie and Poppy with her, the three of them gazing around in naked amazement. “Is this the right apartment? This place looks incredible.”
“It does, right?” I call through the open door of the bathroom, where I’m scrupulously checking the expiration dates on all our over-the-counter medications and inspecting the contents of my makeup collection for signs of old age. “I had a little extra time this morning, so I cleaned up.”
“I’ll say.” Natalie lets out a low whistle, taking in the plumped pillows, the freshly vacuumed area rugs, the books newly reorganized by color. Then she squints. “Did you wash the windows?” she asks.
“Didn’t take that long,” I say cheerfully, scrutinizing a tube of lipstick I’m pretty sure is left over from the Obama administration before tossing it into the trash. I pad out into the hallway. “I also scrubbed the baseboards, re-grouted the shower, and scraped something sticky out of the vegetable drawer of the fridge. Plus, all the cleaning is good cardio.”
“If you say so.” April runs a fingertip along the newly dust-free console table, then shakes her head. “Is it tacky to say that I’m sad for you, but fully willing to take advantage of the benefits of your breakup?”
“Not tacky at all,” I promise her, bustling past them into the kitchen to set out the fruit and cheese plate I prepared in anticipation of their arrival. “I’m not even sad, honestly.”
Poppy looks unconvinced. “Seriously?” she asks.
“Seriously!” I insist. “I literally don’t have time. I’m taking a ceramics class this afternoon, I have a date tonight at that new hipster shuffleboard place, and tomorrow I have sunrise Pilates.” I slice up a loaf of freshly baked bread, motioning briskly for them to dig in. “I didn’t think I was a sunrise exercise person, but I’ll tell you, ladies, the times they are a-changin’.”
Natalie and Poppy exchange a worried look. “I mean, you’re the expert here, babe,” Natalie says carefully. “But you know it’s OK if you want to wallow, right? You don’t have to succeed at your own breakup.”
“Nobody is watching but us,” April puts in, “and we love you no matter what.”
I shake my head, waving them off. “It’s not about succeeding,” I promise them. “I mean, sure, it’s a bummer that it didn’t work out with Wes. Sure, I let myself fall for him more than I should have. But I already cried about him breaking my heart five years ago, you know? I don’t intend to give him one more second of my time.”
“We know,” Poppy puts in, “but that doesn’t mean—”
“It does mean, actually.” I flash her my most brilliant, confident smile. “You guys are amazing friends, and I honestly really appreciate you looking out for me, but I’m good. I promise. Onward and upward!” I reach forward and pluck a fat green grape from the cheese plate, popping it into my mouth with a flourish. “And I mean that literally. I’m going rock climbing tomorrow afternoon.”
I sweat my way through Pilates, scramble up the indoor rock wall, even go for a long run along the river before meeting up with some college friends for dinner. But the truth is, no matter how many activities I pack into my overfull days, no matter how many lunges I do or cookies I bake or uneven pots I throw on the pottery wheel, the second I collapse into bed—the second I slow down enough to let myself think a full thought—all that emptiness comes flooding back.
I miss Wes. I miss him bad.
Hell, I’m in love Wes.
But he’s a liar. So where does that leave me?
I feel torn. I was just starting to trust him again, to open up and imagine a future together. And then everything came crashing down.
Did I really get him so wrong? I can’t believe everything we shared was a lie. But if it was true . . .
Then where is he?
I still don’t have any answers when I head into Manhattan to meet Eliza at the Sterling Press offices. It’s a prestigious, old-school publisher in a fancy building in midtown, and I wait in the lobby opposite a grid of framed blowups of the covers of the most beloved titles the publishing house has put out over the years, from bestselling memoirs to children’s classics to Oprah’s latest book club pick. Even through my gloomy mood I feel a tiny shiver of excitement at the idea that The Breakup Artist might be up there someday.
Hey, a girl can dream, right?
“Katie!” Eliza hurries down the hall in a cute leopard print pencil skirt and chambray top, a pair of bright red kitten heels clicking neatly on the hardwood. “I’m so glad to see you! Come on in.” She looks as enthusiastic as I’ve ever seen her, her hair in a bouncy ponytail and the flush of energy in her cheeks.
“The book is getting incredible buzz,” she tells me happily, leading me through a maze of cubicles to her office. “Finished copies should be here any day, and we’ve got that incredible blurb from Selena. Katie isn’t just a relationship genius, she’s the kind of friend we all need,” she quotes. “Plus, my email is blowing up with offers for TV and magazine features. If you don’t skyrocket to the top of the New York Times list your first week out, I’ll be shocked.” She grins. “Talk about a kick in the Dick Johnson, am I right?”
I laugh, but the sound of it is hollow even to my own ears. God, what is wrong with me? This is great news, it’s the best news. It’s way more than I ever dared to hope for even a few weeks ago, but that tiny thrill I felt out in the lobby has withered like a month-old bouquet of roses forgotten at the back of the fridge in April’s shop.
I feel like a fraud.
It’s should be obvious that I’ve got no business telling other people how to break up—or make up, for that matter. Not when it was all I could do to keep from bursting into noisy tears on the F train on my way over here. I lied to my friends when I told them I was doing fine, post-Wes; the truth is, I’m barely holding it together, and I’m worried that if I stop moving for even a second my entire front is going to collapse faster than Selena and Ryder’s made-for-the-screen happily ever after.
Thankfully, Eliza doesn’t seem to notice my mood. “We’re planning your launch party at my favorite bookstore in Brooklyn next week,” she tells me, tilting her computer monitor in my direction so I can see the elaborate invite. “The marketing team is going all out—themed refreshments, all kinds of amazing swag, a photobooth, you name it. You’re going to be the toast of New York!”
She’s so thrilled that I can’t help but smile. “That sounds amazing,” I say honestly, trying to sound excited and not like all I want to do is crawl back into my bed and stay there for the foreseeable future, emerging only for the occasional doughnut and possibly a new season of Fleabag. I promised myself I wasn’t going to wallow, but a self-indulgent roll in the hay with my own misery sounds seriously tempting right about now. “I can’t thank you enough for going to bat for me like this.”
“You earned it, babe,” Eliza says. Then she frowns, looking at me more closely
. “You OK?” she asks. “You look a little pale for a person who spent last week in California.”
“Just overwhelmed—in a good way,” I assure her. “I’m going to go for a run this afternoon, clear my head so I can be extra-focused for everything that’s coming up in the next few weeks.”
Eliza nods approvingly. “Sounds like a plan.”
Spoiler alert: I do not go for a run.
When April comes home from the shop, she finds me sprawled on the couch in my grubbiest sweatpants, a hole in the One Direction concert T-shirt I’ve had since high school. My laptop is balanced on my stomach next to an open bag of cheddar Goldfish while the TV blares in the background. “Did you know Wes studied abroad in Brussels in college?” I greet her, instead of bothering with a hello.
“Uh-oh,” April says, dropping her purse on the console table. “How far back in his social media are you?”
“I got to the end of his Instagram,” I tell her, without bothering to look up from the screen. My eyes are dry and itchy, but I can’t bring myself to stop. “Had to switch to Facebook instead.”
“Vintage.” April nods, then pulls a fresh bag of Milanos out of her purse with a flourish. She sits beside me on the sofa. “I had a feeling these might come in handy,” she says. “What’s on?”
“Something’s Gotta Give,” I tell her. “And can I just say, why on earth does Diane Keaton pick Jack Nicholson when she could have Keanu?”
“Must be generational,” April says, offering me the bag of Milanos. I take two, barely resisting the urge to shove them both into my mouth at once. “It’s a good night to curl up with a movie, though.”
“I’m going to go to hot yoga as soon as it’s over,” I tell her . . .
And then I immediately burst into tears.
I haven’t cried at all since the day of the wedding and it feels weirdly good, like a dam breaking or finally finding a clean bathroom at the end of a too-long road trip. Still, I can practically smell the stink of hypocrisy wafting off me. “I’m a phony,” I wail through the sobs. “I’m a total fake. I’ve made my entire career helping people get over their breakups and I can’t even get over my own!”
“Oh, honey.” April slings an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close. “You’re not a phony,” she reassures me. “You’re a human being, that’s all. You’re allowed to be sad.”
“I’m really sad,” I confess, which sets me to sobbing all over again. April and I watch the rest of the movie punctuated by my intermittent sniffling.
“Do you think I moved too fast?” I ask as the credits are rolling. I blow my nose, sniffling. “Breaking it off, I mean? Was I too ready to believe the worst about him?”
April thinks about that for a moment. “I jumped to conclusions about Seth once. I didn’t give him the chance to explain, and it was a mistake. But I don’t know Wes . . . And I’ve seen him hurt you before. Do you think you were too ready to believe the worst about him?” she asks. “Were you waiting for him to disappoint you?”
I consider it, remembering that day on the beach in Los Angeles. Remembering the way he looked at me that night out underneath the stars. In my head, I know that Wes isn’t Ryder, that it’s not fair to paint the two of them with the same guilty, cheating brush. But if he’d really changed—if he isn’t still the kind of guy who’s happy to let me go without a fight—then where is he? Why hasn’t he called?
You told him not to, a tiny voice inside my head reminds me.
April is still looking at me, waiting.
“Keanu wouldn’t do this,” I say instead, then I turn up the TV.
23
Katie
I’m still no closer to figuring things out by the time my book launch rolls around the next week. Eliza came through in a huge way and the publisher has pulled out all the stops: catering from an adorable doughnut shop and huge gift bags full of branded breakup swag for everyone who attends. Poppy and Natalie come over to help me get ready, and I’m wearing a new red dress with a full skirt and a pair of peep-toe heels, adding a chunky bangle and some dangling earrings before holding my hands up like, ta-da!
I frown at my reflection, unsure. “Do I look like my heart is broken?” I ask.
“Sure don’t,” April says, squeezing my shoulders and turning me in the direction of the doorway. “Let’s go knock ’em dead.”
The bookstore is packed when we arrive, a line of people snaking out the door and around the corner. There’s a life-size cardboard cutout of me in the plate-glass window, along with an enormous stack of my books ready to be signed and sold. My stomach flips as I look around the bright, airy shop, taking it all in. This is it—the moment I imagined to keep myself motivated during all those long days I spent sitting at my desk writing and editing. This is my literal dream come true.
I’m grateful. I’m humbled. I’m so, so happy.
But I also can’t help but feel like the shine is a tiny bit dimmer without Wes here by my side.
“Isn’t that Selena?” Poppy asks, grabbing my arm and squeezing so hard she nearly cuts off the circulation to my fingers. “With . . .” She squints. “Who is that? Oh my God, is that Jake Gyllenhaal?”
I follow her gaze across the shop, frowning a little. “No, it’s not Jake Gyllenhaal,” I say with a shake of my head. “I think it’s actually . . . the hot bartender from the cantina?!”
Selena sees me, and her luminous face breaks into a wide, excited smile. “There she is!” she calls, waving me over. “The woman of the hour. This is amazing, Katie. Congratulations!”
“Thanks, lady.” We hug, and then I turn to the bartender. “It’s . . . good to see you again?”
Selena seems to sense my confusion. “This is Mark! We met back in Ojai,” she explains happily. “Brooke took me back for drinks one night, and we got talking . . . It turns out Mark loves sunrise yoga, too!” She turns to him and beams. “Could you be a darling and grab our seats? I don’t want to miss out.”
Mark smiles. “Of course, babe.”
He kisses her forehead and heads through the crowd. Selena watches him go, smiling. “It’s so nice to be with someone outside the fame machine, you know?” she says. “Everything’s way more chill.”
“I’m glad,” I tell her. I glance around to make sure no one is listening, and I lower my voice. “Listen, Selena. I want to apologize again for the way everything happened back in LA.”
“Are you kidding me?” Selena shakes her head, looking completely unbothered. “You have nothing to apologize for. If I would have listened to you in the first place, I wouldn’t have even been in that mess! You were respecting my wishes, that’s all. Turned out my wishes were just bogus.”
I think of the article I saw online this morning about Ryder drunkenly strolling up to the drive-thru window at Burger King on foot and then throwing a tantrum when the cashier refused to serve him. “I think maybe it all worked out for the best in the end,” I say, and Selena smiles.
“For sure! What about you?” she asks, taking my hand and squeezing. “Have you spoken to Wes? Is he here?”
I shake my head, feeling an ache in my chest. “It’s complicated,” I start to explain, just as I spy Eliza hurrying in our direction from across the bookstore.
“Katie!” she calls. “Selena! It’s showtime. Are you guys ready to get started?”
I nod, swallowing down the butterflies buzzing deep inside my rib cage. I plaster on my most confident, professional smile. “Absolutely,” I tell her. “Let’s go break up!”
People take their seats, but the place is standing room only by the time we head up to the front of the room. I can’t believe how packed it is—all these people here, for me!
“Everyone! We have a very special guest here tonight, and another special guest introducing her!” Eliza steps up, and the room buzzes with anticipation. “First, you all know her, you all love her . . . Selena Owens!”
Selena steps up to a round of applause, and then proves why she’s the one with a career as a p
ublic performer with the most amazing introduction. She leads off with a joke about whether anyone has read any good gossip lately and ends by asking the crowd to “please give a warm welcome to my dear friend and the best breakup artist in the business, Katie Peters.”
I take a deep breath and step up to the podium. We planned the whole thing out, so I just have to follow the schedule: reading a bit from the first chapter of the book and keeping a smile on my face, despite my nerves. But soon, I relax and get into it, so by the time we reach the Q&A, I’m almost having fun. “Now comes the interesting part,” I say, and I mean it. For the first time since I took my place in front of the crowd, I feel confident and collected and just like myself. I know how to do this. More than that, I’m good at it. “How about some questions?”
The first few are easy: a curly-haired college girl wanting to know what warning signs she should look out for in a relationship, and a guy who wants to break up with his boyfriend but isn’t sure how.
“I mean, he’s not here in the audience, is he?” I joke. “Because in that case, I think you just did.” I stress the importance of open, honest, respectful communication, then I nod at a woman in her thirties with pale skin and dark eyes, who’s got a tentative hand half-raised. “How can I help?” I ask.
The woman looks startled, like she didn’t actually expect me to call on her. She clears her throat, but still her voice wavers as she asks, “Um. What do you think about getting back together with an ex?”
I make an exaggerated grimace, and the crowd chuckles. “First of all, thank you for being brave enough to ask,” I tell her. “I’m sorry your relationship ended in the first place. I bet that really sucked.” I pause, my fingertips curling around the edge of the podium. “I’ll be honest with you: I’ve always felt really strongly that relationships end for a reason, and my own experiences . . . Well, let’s just say, they haven’t proven me wrong.”