Page 26 of The Breakup Artists

For a long second, he just stands there, spatula in hand, looking startled. Then the corners of his mouth lift. “Like a date?”

The twins stop hitting each other to look at me.

“Well...” My cheeks heat. “Maybe. Yeah.”

Bentley’s face lights up, but before he can respond Trevor hits him with a cardboard tube.

And the twins chant, “Bentley has aday-ate,” in unison.

“Anyway, see ya,” I say, backing up toward the door. “Also, you might want to flip those eggs.”

Bentley turns toward the stove, where his eggs are browning on the pan, and jumps into action. I show myself out, and as I run through my yard, it occurs to me that in some bizarre twist of fate I asked Bentley out.Me. And Bentley of all people. Today is all kinds of upside down.

15

august

I drive quickly down Main Street in Ella’s town, which isn’t quick at all considering the speed limit is twenty-five and I’m going twenty-seven. The ride has been mostly quiet since Tiny and I drove past the street where Des had her accident. I looked away, like I always do, and Tiny looked at me, an unspoken question on her lips. But (thankfully) instead of starting that conversation again, she leaned back in her seat. She’s been staring at the ocean since, riding air waves out the window with her hand, and not noticing when I look at her. And considering the small smile on her face, I’m certain that whatever she’s thinking about ceased to be me a good twenty minutes ago.

“You cool?” I ask.

“Huh?” she says and then distractedly, “Yeah, for sure.”

Before I can comment, she sits up, her feet sliding off the dashboard.

“There,” Tiny says, pointing at a sign for the harbor.

I make a fast left onto the gravel drive and loop around the small parking lot, snagging a spot in the back near a wall of cattails. We jump out—me in another paint-splattered T-shirt, shorts, boat shoes, and linen navy-blue blazer (also from Tiny’s dad’s wardrobe) and Tiny in a long cotton dress that hugs her middle and has a slit up one thigh. Both of our outfits are laid back but on point, carefully curated looks that seem effortless. And I’m reminded of that Shakespeare quote that basically sums up my life right now:All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.

“Who even are these people?” Tiny says as we approach the giant yacht being loaded with teens.

“Not a clue,” I reply. While we have a few solidly upper-middle-class kids in our town, they’re not remotely at this level. But somehow, no matter where you are, money and popularity seem to go hand in hand. Or maybe it’s just power and more power.

We step onto the dock, where a smiling Amber greets us in a sparkly gold dress.

“Impressive,” I say, nodding toward the yacht.

“Isn’t it?” Amber agrees. “My parents rent it every year for their anniversary. But it’s an all-day rental, and they only use it during the evening. Soooo... waste not, want not.”

We make our way onto the opulent boat, where I recognize almost everyone from the day before. Tiny and I walk around the deck, where small groups sunbathe and drink fancy lemonades.

“Interesting that he’s here,” Tiny whispers and I follow her gaze to Amber’s ex, “or complicated. Or both?” Derek sits on a couch in a living room surrounded by windows with an Amber look-alike as they make sexy eyes at each other.

I groan. “Incestuous friend groups are like booby-trapped mazes.”

“Tell me about it,” Tiny says as Justin drops onto the couch next to Derek. “That situation is basically begging for me to investigate it.” And she walks off, leaving me alone on the deck.

Justin looks up as Tiny approaches. And for a quick second his cocky smile is so much like Kyle’s that I do a double take, anger pricking my skin and tightening my shoulders. So I look away, leaning up against the railing and staring out at the inlet. When I can’t shake Kyle from my thoughts, I exhale one loud breath, like I could eject this feeling from my body and throw it into the water, leaving it there to float away.

The boat starts to move, and I figure I’ll hang out here for a while, wait until people find their party stride so I can snag an opportunity to talk to Ella. But not ten seconds pass before gold fabric appears in my peripheral vision.

“I love the ocean,” Amber says, leaning up against the railing, lemonade in hand. “But then again, I’m a water baby.”

I turn toward her; she came right for me. “Water baby?”

She laughs. “Water sign. Water birth. Swim like a mermaid.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” I say, careful to keep my tone squarely in friend territory. “You crushed everyone in that race yesterday.”