Page 44 of The Breakup Artists

“Not judging.” I pause, but the fact that she’s self-conscious about it means on some level there’s doubt. I can work with doubt. “I just never took you for the type of person who’d give up on your dream school for a boyfriend.”

Her eyes widen. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” I say, but my tone betrays my opinion.

“That’s not what happened,” she says, more adamant, and I can tell she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.

Des was strong willed and confident like Ella, but that’s the thing about larger-than-life, controlling people like Kyle and Justin: they slowly wear you down, making you change little by little. And when all your friends rally behind them proclaiming them perfect, it’s easy to lose parts of yourself.

The line ahead of us starts moving.

Ella looks out into the sea of people like she’s not convinced this was a good idea.

So I change tactics. “Who’s your best friend?”

She gives me an “are you serious?” look. “First question’s about my future, and now about my best friend? Are you sure you’re not secretly forty-five?” But she’s no longer staring at the crowd like she wants to walk away.

I smile. “Because I’m so mature?”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“You think I’m different. I’m good with that.”

“I think you’re ridiculous,” she says, but the way she says it makes me like the word.

“Tickets,” a scruffy man says to us without feeling, and we hand them over. In most instances, I’d offer to pay out of politeness. But Ella would look at me askance, like I just tricked her into a date. And I don’t have those intentions.

We climb into the metal seat, and the ticket guy secures the bar over our laps.

“You never answered my question,” I say, as we jerk a few feet into the air.

She looks at the swaying seat above us like it might give her the strength to deal with me. But her expression edges toward amusement. Humor and disdain. “You already know my best friends—Leah and Amber.”

“How long have you guys known each other?”

“Since we were five,” she says easily. “Who’s yours?”

“What a weird question.” I fake shock as we lift higher. “Are you sure you’re not forty-five?”

“Ha ha... very funny.”

“Mia,” I say.

“Wait, your best friend is your cousin?”

“Yup.”

“Did you two grow up together?”

“We did. Right next door,” I say, telling an unplanned truth. But Tiny and I often do this, mix the truth with the story to make it flow. “I spent a lot of time at her house.”

“Like you are this summer?”

“Exactly like that.”

“And your parents?” she asks as we move upward again.

“Not much to tell. We’re different.”