Page 120 of The Breakup Artists

I drop my phone, dragging my hands down my face.Disaster.Absolute effing nightmare.But then I pick it back up because it’s impossible to look away. I skim the rest of the article, detailing our website and our claims of success. And that’s when I see it, a quote from Ella’s dad.

“Even though events didn’t unfold the way we expected, Summer Love Inc. did obtain a recording verifying that our daughter’s boyfriend was cheating.”

“God damn it!” I stand up, throwing my phone onto my bed. I’m so mad I can barely think. Ella’s dad gave aquote? But then all at once the realization hits me so hard I feel ill.

Tiny wouldn’t give him the recording. He wanted to ensure Ella’s breakup, and he didn’t trust us. So he publicly accused Justin, knowing Ella couldn’t ignore it. Of all the shitty things to do to his own daughter. I’m so angry my skin feels like it’s on fire.

I pick up my phone, pressing the call button on Ella’s number. But she doesn’t answer. And when I get her voicemail, it tells me her inbox is full. I grab clothes, pulling a T-shirt over my head and running my hands through my messy hair. I head downstairs, but then I remember Mom’s at work and Tiny’s housebound. I have no car.

I call a car, pacing in front of my house for the full seven minutes it takes to show up. When the bright-blue Nissan does appear, I jump in the back seat, tapping my fingers on the armrest for the entire thirty-three-minute drive to Ella’s house. And when it drops me at the entrance of her long driveway, I jog down it, pounding on her front door.

After five excruciating seconds, the door cracks, the maid’s face filling the gap.

“Hi!” I exclaim, and by the way she frowns, I’m sure I look wild. “Is Ella here?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but Mr. and Mrs. Becker aren’t home.”

“If I could just talk to Ella for one—”

“Sorry,” she says again and closes the door.

I turn around, walking two steps down the driveway and pulling out my phone to text Ella, when I suddenly remember her story about the balcony. If I could find which window is hers, maybe I could yell to her? I look up at her house, but there are no balconies in the front. So I head for the wooden gate that leads to the backyard, pulling it open before I can think about the million reasons this is a bad idea.

After all of the crap luck I’ve had recently, I get a reversal. She’s already outside, sitting on a small balcony adjacent a third-story window.

“Ella?” I say, jogging to the grass below her.

She wipes the backs of her hands over her eyes, but it’s impossible to cover the fact that she’s been crying. Her eyes widen as she registers me.

“Ella, I’m sorry,” I call up to her. I glance at the latticework on the side of her house, which I could potentially climb to get to her. “I’m so... God, I’m an idiot. Worse than an idiot. I should have told you the truth. You have every right to hate me. But I need you to know—” I hesitate, my emotions sticking in my throat.

But she doesn’t respond. She just climbs back into her room, closes the window, and draws her curtain.

I’m left on her lawn, my chest tight, staring up at her empty balcony.

59

valentine

Sunday—day seven of a punishment that isn’t grounding in name but feels like its identical twin. My phone was gone until last night. My Jeep privileges are trashed, and I’m not allowed to hang out with friends. My parents are calling it a period of self-reflection. I’m calling it an eternity of horrifying silence. And to make today even more crapola, it’s our would-be deadline for finishing Ella’s case. My dad gave me back my phone last night, but I haven’t had the guts to turn it on. Not after that article that blew up Summer Love.

I sit at the kitchen table, slumped over my tea and picking at the edge of a pastry.

Within twenty-four hours my email filled up with friends and parents from past cases, and requests from the press for comment, which Dad informed me was out of the question. He said that if I gave any response at all I’d lose my laptop, too. But it doesn’t matter because the damage is done. Our business is irrevocably smashed. People are pissed. And everyone in town will not shut up about it, or so Mom says.

Then there’s Mom. My pregnant mother, who I can’t even think about without getting teary. She’s trying to act normal, not to snip or sigh, but last night I heard her crying in the bathroom when she thought no one was around. All Dad keeps saying is just wait for the results from the specialist. But it feels like that’s not good enough, like we’re failing her in some major way.

To top it off, there’s my silence with August. I wrote him an email a couple of days ago checking in, and all I got in reply was a one-line response that he’s fine and how am I. But since I didn’t want to answer that, I haven’t written back. And since he also didn’t write again, I know with certainty that we both suck.

I glance out the window at him, where he sits in our “office” with his Snoopy coffee mug beside him on the dock. I can tell by his drooping shoulders that he’s stewing.

“Same,” I say under my breath and glance at Bentley’s house, who’s the only person I seem to be talking to normally right now. He hasn’t put any pressure on me to explain. He hasn’t asked me about the gossip. He’s just been reassuring and patient and the perfect escape from all the crap in my head.

As if Bentley knew I was thinking about him, he opens his screen door, heading toward his weights. Only halfway there, he stops and glances at August.

“Don’t,” I warn him. “August will eat you alive right now.”

Bentley apparently agrees with my assessment even though he can’t hear me, because he looks away from the dock and throws his towel over his shoulder. But before I fully unclench, he looks at August again, and this time he starts walking toward him.