Page 55 of The Breakup Artists

“All I’m saying is that people have a different level of attractiveness when they’re popular, and I’m not talking about the physical. Popular people don’t get scrutinized the same way, their bullying gets celebrated as humor, and so on.”

“I’d say the opposite,” she replies, pushing back. “I’d say their lives are under a microscope and they get scrutinized more.”

I shake my head. “In the spotlight more, observed more, yes. But their flaws get overlooked. I’m not saying it’s always bad. It just skews perspective.”

A girl with purple hair behind the counter asks us if we’re ready to order. Ella immediately shifts her attention, and I let the conversation go. I’m not trying to convince her of something, just plant a seed that Justin might not be as shiny and perfect as he seems.

We tell the girl behind the counter what we want, and she hands us a number.

Ella chooses a small table by the window overlooking the porch. “This place has been here forever,” she says, changing the subject. “I used to come here with my mom before I could even walk.”

I sit across from Ella at a rustic wooden table.

“Hasn’t changed a bit,” she says.

“Nostalgia is a funny thing.”

She tilts her head as she pulls her chair in. “How do you mean?”

“I read once that nostalgia makes people feel like life has more meaning, something about increased connection and value,” I explain. But what I don’t say is that Tiny and I often use nostalgia as a tool in our cases. In fact, I’d have chosen to meet her here if I’d known it existed.

“That makes sense,” she says. “Maybe that’s why I like it so much.”

“Are you close with your mom?” I ask.

She sighs, twisting a gold ring on her pointer finger. “I used to be. Well, I don’t know. I guess I still am? I just... recently things have been different.”

“Different how?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Wouldn’t have asked the question otherwise.”

She shakes her head like she’s not sure what to make of me. “You know, you’re definitely not what I expected, Holden. You’re smart. And actually kind of nice.”

I laugh. “You’re surprised I’m nice?”

She laughs, too. “I take it back—you’re not nice. But youaregenuine, which is rare.”

For a second, I feel guilty. If she knew that I was asking about her mom because Tiny and I discussed it this afternoon, she wouldn’t praise me. But just as quickly, I push the doubt away. If someone had done this for Des, she’d still be here.

She rolls her eyes when I don’t immediately answer. “You basically suck at small talk, though.”

I (the real August) smile at this. “That might be the truest thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’ve watched you with Amber. I’m not gonna lie: it’s painful.”

I rest my elbows on the table. “Well, if we’re going this whole truth route... When you told me Amber wanted me to come to her party, I was hesitant. But when I got there and she kept touching my arm, I thought she might devour me like a praying mantis.”

She laughs a full-bodied laugh, and it lights up her face in a way I haven’t seen before. “Amber’s the queen of the arm touch, and it gets exponentially worse when she’s flirting and/or drinking. Drives Leah nuts.”

“I’m with Leah.”

The purple-haired girl shows up at our table, giving us our crêpes and lemonades and taking the number in exchange.

“Amber thinks you like her, you know,” Ella says, amused. “Thinks you’re just too shy to admit it.”

“Damn. I mean, I’m flattered. But Amber’s not my type by a long shot.”