Page 54 of The Breakup Artists

28

august

The crêpe place in Ella’s town has a beachy, country-store vibe, complete with a porch that has beach chairs on it for people who are too sandy to sit inside. I walk up the steps to the screen door in the fading light and pull it open. Ella waits near the front window, rapidly typing into her phone.

I clear my throat.

She looks up, and when she sees me, she smiles. For some reason it catches me off guard. She’s never smiled at my arrival before, and it’s nice, enough so that I break eye contact and put my hands in my pockets. And as I do I hear Tiny’s voice taunting me about having a crush, which I do not. I do like her, but as a person, not a romantic interest; we just understand each other in a way I didn’t expect.

Ella slips her phone into her shoulder bag and chuckles. “Don’t look so nervous; it’s not like this is a date or anything.”

And great. My cheeks are reddening, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. “Obviously,” I say, trying to cover my absurd blush. “I never thought otherwise.”

She exhales. “Exactly. Good. I told Leah you’d never think I was asking you out-out.” Suddenly her intent phone typing makes sense.

I scratch a nonexistent itch on my eyebrow. “Sooo, you like crêpes, huh?”

She laughs. “Don’t you dare act like I just made this awkward.”

“You didn’t?”

“Not even a little. We’re friends. Friends eat crêpes together. End of story.”

I smile inadvertently at the admission that we’re friends.

But Ella must take my smile as something else because she says, “And don’t grin at me like that, either. Just look at the menu. Nutella and strawberries. Bananas and honey. Smile at those.”

I obediently direct my attention to the handwritten chalkboard menu on the wall and follow her to the counter. Despite my awkwardness, it occurs to me there is an opening here to discuss her relationship. “Speaking of Justin,” I start.

She gives me the side-eye. “Not even remotely smooth.”

“Ouch. I’d call Justin at least quasi-smooth.”

She half laughs. “Not Justin. You.”

“I mean, he’s pretty popular,” I continue.

She looks at me suspiciously. “So?”

“So are you.”

She turns to face me, no longer making a show of reading the chalkboard. “And?”

I shrug. “And nothing,” I say casually, knowing there’s no chance she’ll let my comment slide. “It just makes sense.”

She studies my face, or what she can see of it in profile. “Because I’m shallow?”

“Not at all.” I meet her eyes. “The exact opposite, really.”

She lifts an eyebrow, unsure if she should be offended.

“But popular people always date each other. It’s just an accepted fact,” I say.

“I’m not dating him because he’s popular,” she insists like she needs me to know that. But I can also see her trying to nail down her motives, which is the whole point—self-evaluation. Tiny often says we don’t really do anything in these cases but hold up a mirror, and that it’s what people see in the reflection that has them choose differently.

“I didn’t say you were,” I agree.

“You implied it.”