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“You should probably back up further than that,” Trish says. “Isla joined the group yesterday, and we gave her the homework of not texting her ex for twenty-four hours since the poor thing had been texting him every day with no response. Turns out, he texted her last night, and she was strong enough not to read it yet.”
“Is that so?” Emory says, leaning forward in his desk.
“Yep,” Ciara says. “I don’t know about you guys, I’m dying to know what’s in that text.”
I feel my face flush under his intense gaze. In the brief seconds that pass, it’s as if Emory has peered straight into my soul and gleaned every single intimate secret about me. I shrivel in my desk, my throat suddenly dry. I grab the soda can next to me and pop open the top.
Emory drums his fingers on his desk. “So what’s the text say?”
“No way,” I say, shaking my head.
Ciara gasps and Bastian gives me a concerned look. “Are you saying you want to delete the text unread?” Bastian asks.
I shake my head. “I’m not reading the text aloud to someone I don’t even know.” I stare at Emory. It’s bad enough that he now knows I’m a heartbroken freak, the last thing I want to do is humiliate myself in front of him by reading something that could contain a thousand different embarrassing words.
“You don’t know any of us,” Trish says.
I ignore her, my gaze focused on the gorgeous guy in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that reads Qui vivra verra sitting across from me. “Everyone told me their story yesterday. I want to know yours.”
“Fair enough,” Emory says with a shrug, but I’m not finished yet.
I fold my arms across my chest and shove my pizza away. My appetite has been gone since he walked through the door. “I want to know how the hell you’re in a group for heartbroken people when I see you with a new girl every other day? You don’t seem very heartbroken. How do I know you’re not here to mock those of us who are?”
“Whoa, Isla,” Bastian says, holding up his hands. “This is a supportive and safe environment. Everything everyone says in this room is confidential.”
“He’s cool,” Xavier says over a mouthful of pizza. “Trust me, he won’t say anything.” He nods to Emory and Emory nods back, a faint smile spreading across his lips as if they share some kind of secret.
I take a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “It’s bad enough that you guys know I cried in second period and made a total idiot out of myself, but I’m—”
“You cried in second period?” Emory says. His voice sounds almost sarcastic, but there’s an emotion behind his voice that I can’t quite place. “Damn, this guy did a number on you. How long were you together?”
“Four years,” I say before pressing my lips together. “I’m not talking until you talk. What’s your story?”
“Wow, four years. How’d he break up with you?” Emory asks, that cocky smile remaining on his lips even though his eyes soften a bit. “Please tell me it wasn’t through text.”
Rage rises up in my chest, and I grit my teeth to hold it at bay. “You have to tell me your story first. It’s only fair. Bastian?”
Bastian nods, his lips moving to the side of his mouth. He looks like a therapist from a movie, like maybe he practices this thoughtful look in the mirror. “I agree. She should know your story. Go on, Em. We’re all friends here.”
Emory’s tongue runs across his bottom lip, sending tingles down my spine. My breath catches in my throat. How can he do that with just one movement? And why do I even care? I’m here because of Nate.
“Do you know how this support group was started?” Emory asks me.
I glance over at Bastian, and he gives me a little nod. “No?” I say.
“Maybe you should tell the story,” he says, throwing a sideways glance at Bastian. “It just sounds smug when I say it.”
Trish snorts and shoots a finger gun toward Emory. He winks at her. I feel more out of the loop than I have all freaking school year. Bastian rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll tell it. Four years ago, I think it was your freshman year, right?” Emory nods and Bastian continues, “It was just after Christmas and Mrs. Gertie was ambushed by three girls who claimed to have been heartbroken by Emory over the Christmas break. Apparently, they found each other on Twitter or something.”
“Facebook,” Emory chimes in.
“Facebook,” Bastian says, waving his hand. He shrugs and spreads his arms out. “She suggested they start a support group for people who’d been hurt in relationships and invite others to join in. Now it’s an official school club, thanks to Ms. Meadows volunteering her time.”
We all glance to the back corner of the room where Ms. Meadows is sliding blank canvases into a long shelf, but she doesn’t seem to notice us. It is repulsive how easily I can lust after this guy who has broken so many hearts. What is wrong with me? Someone as hot as Emory shouldn’t have so much power to hurt people.
“So how many of you has he hurt?” I ask, looking around the circle of desks. “Ciara?”
She shakes her head, shooting a derisive look in Emory’s direction. “The boy is hot, I’ll give him that, but he’s too young.”
