Page 48 of The Breakup Artists

I want to refuse, but another couple of exchanges like this and my parents will wake up. I hold out my hand, instructing him to wait, and close the window. I grab my short lilac robe off the back of my door and throw it over my pajamas.

I quietly pick my way down the carpeted steps and follow the runner in the hallway to the front door like a cartoon burglar. No way I’m going out back—my parents’ bedroom faces that direction and so does August’s. I slide into my flip-flops and slip outside, moving from cool air-conditioning to warm humidity that smells like salt water and dewy grass.

My sandals flop on the stone path, and even though the crickets chirp and the water laps in rhythm, my sandals sound like they’re on loudspeaker in our sleepy inlet.

I lean around the side of the house where Bentley’s waiting on the lawn. I motion for him to follow me, and then speed walk until I reach the hedges that separate my front yard from the road.

I turn to face him, the cool grass tickling my feet. “You can’t just throw pebbles at my window. This isn’t a nineties movie.”

He grins like a little boy. “But you came down.”

“Yeah, I did. That’s not the point.” I’m still annoyed for a reason I can’t define.

He stares at me.

“You said you wanted to talk?” Frustration affects my intonation. “So talk.”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“At midnight?”

“Yeah.”

“My lights were off.”

“You were typing in our text,” he says. “I kept seeing the message bubble pop up, but you never sent anything. So I thought I’d try talking to you in person.”

I tuck my hair behind my ears and break eye contact, hoping he can’t see my embarrassment in the dim light. I realize his observation means he was also staring at our text thread, but the whole thing is far too romantic a notion for me and Bentley.

“I got nervous the other day,” he says.

“Yeah, you said that. Don’t worry about it. That fight was bound to happen anyway,” I say, trying out both my rejected texts.

He looks like he disagrees.

“I mean... we’re different,” I clarify.

“But that’s not a bad thing. That’s why I like you.” His voice is sincere.

I nervous-laugh. “Bentley, let’s be real, you say that to everyone.”

“I really don’t.”

“You do. And I get it. You’re a flirt.”

“I am a flirt. But that doesn’t change the fact that I like you.” There goes that sincerity again. And for unknown reasons it fuels my frustration.

I put my hands on my hips. “Great. We done here?”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Your eyebrows are pushed together.”

“They’re not.”

“Tell me what to do to fix it.”