Page 142 of The Breakup Artists

“You know we’ll help, right?” Mom says, sipping her lemon tea. “Even if they don’t do the right thing. August is family.”

I smile. “While I don’t think he’d easily accept, Idothink he’d buckle if it was for an off-campus apartment where he could bring Swee,” I say, and I can already see the wheels turning in Mom’s head to make this happen. “Who knows, though, maybe Ella will soften him? You should have seen him in that Romeo costume. I wanted to videotape it so bad.” It feels good talking to my parents openly about Summer Love. I shove the food in my shoulder bag and swipe my finger through a glob of whipped cream, licking it clean. “Okay, I’m going to get these over to August before they lose their warm gooeyness.”

I head out the back door and skip down my porch. Bentley is already outside working out, sans shirt, and I waver, promising myself it’ll be a quick detour.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just here to engage in pointless small talk while I secretly stare at your six-pack,” I say, repeating back his joke from a month ago.

“Finally!” he laughs, like I’ve come to my senses. “What do you say to a beach day, Valentine? You and me, waves, sand, me pretending I tripped so I can rub shoulders with you?”

“Wellll, I was going to make you stew in your doghouse a little longer.”

“Believe me,” he says. “The stewing has been real. Go ask the twins.”

“But then there’s always the argument that summer is short,” I say. “And that I’m going to California soon, so we should probably take advantage of this.”

“Exactly,” he says and reaches for me with a look that asks if it’s okay. And when I smile in answer, he places his hands on my hips, pulling me forward. “No time like the present.”

I laugh, giving him a coy look and lightly resting my fingers on his chest. Our mouths are only inches apart.

“You’re awfully close,” I tease.

He grins. “I’m just a close-talker. This is how I talk to everyone.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yup.”

“Your teachers and Old Man Hairy-Nose at the supermarket?”

“Especially them.”

I laugh, and he smiles down at me, his eyes so focused on mine that I feel tipsy. “And about California,” he says quietly. “I hear they have some good waves. Might have to check out setting up a surf camp there.”

My chest flutters, and on impulse I run my fingertip across his lower lip. He inhales a fast breath, and the hungry look in his eyes tips me right over the edge. I kiss him, hot and fast and greedy.

“Okay,” I say, pushing my hand against his chest, trying to regain my composure. “I have to go.” I take a step. “But I’ll come find you in a few hours.”

He falls backward into the grass, gripping his heart like I’ve slain him.

I force myself to turn away, a grin lighting up my face all the way to August’s.

I climb the ladder and slide through the window. “Rise and shine, Romeo—” I say, but the only one in August’s rumpled bed is Swee, who’s belly up and snoring.

I walk into the hallway, heading for the stairs, when I hear something clunk in Des’s bedroom. For a second, I think I imagined it.

“August?” I say, stopping in my tracks.

“In here,” he calls, his muffled voice giving me a start.

I gently push Des’s door open, my heart rapid firing. But I’m not greeted with the musty smell of stagnant air. Des’s windows are open, blowing in a fresh breeze, and her summer-rain candle is lit on her nightstand, a scent so familiar that I half expect to find her lounging in bed, doing her nails and reading poetry.

August sits on the floor surrounded by photo albums.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling like I intruded on something private. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Mom just ordered you some food and...”

“You’re not interrupting,” he says and looks up at me. “I just thought I might go through some of this stuff. Maybe reclaim my paints?”

“Yeah?” I say, my throat suddenly tight. “I mean, great. Yes, you should totally do that.”