The Breakup Support Group

“Yes?” I say, and it sounds like a question.

“How many times?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me as if she’ll know if I lie.

“Be honest,” Bastian adds.

I swallow. “Just like … almost once a day.”

“Damn.” I don’t know who says it, but I am very much aware that every eye in the classroom is on me.

“What?” I say, throwing up my hands. “We dated for four years! I can’t help but want to talk to him.”

“And does he reply?” Ciara asks.

I shake my head. “Not really.”

“Okay, okay, settle down,” Bastian says over the sudden roar of the entire Break Up Support Group talking at once. “Isla is our new member, and she’s our number one priority right now. She clearly needs a lot of help.” He marks something in his notebook quickly and then looks up at me. “I vote we make the next week Isla Intervention Week and spend all of our time helping her. Can I get a second?”

“Seconded,” Ciara says.

“Third,” Trish and Xavier say at the same time.

“I’m not a part of this,” Ms. Meadows says from her desk, “But I’d vote yes if I could.”

I lower my head into my hands as a wave of pure humiliation and shame rolls over me. Someone pats my back.

“This is a safe place,” Bastian says. “We’re going to help you cut out these self-destructive tendencies, and we’ll get your heart mended in no time.”

I look up, and tears fill my eyes for the billionth time since second period. Cursing myself, I blink them away. “So what do I do?” I ask, throwing myself on their mercy. Somehow, it feels right. Like maybe these people can actually help me.

Bastian draws a line across the paper in his notebook and writes something new underneath it. “Your homework is to avoid talking to Nate for twenty-four hours. No texts, no social media, no calls, and no looking longingly at his photos on your phone.”

“I don’t—” I say quickly, but Bastian narrows his almond-shaped eyes at me. “Okay fine, maybe I do,” I say with a sigh.

“The first step in healing is cutting out the wound,” Bastian says. “And Nate is your wound.”

Trish holds up a fist and makes a slashing movement across the air, her invisible dagger slicing out Nate from my heart.

“We’re going to take real good care of you,” Ciara says, giving me a wink.

I sigh and wipe away a tear. “God, I hope so.”

Chapter Eleven

My phone is a lead weight in my back pocket. I feel its presence everywhere I go. It is a living thing, heavy as hell, and calling out to me telepathically. I grind my teeth and pull it out of my back pocket, turning it over in my hand. The screen is dark, and that little LED light at the top doesn’t blink. I know what this means, I know it as a scientific fact—there are no new messages—but I click the button anyway, just to see the screen light up. Just to feel the noose around my heart clench a little bit tighter.

There are no new messages.

With a sigh, I push the button again and turn the stupid thing off. I toss it to the granite countertop in our kitchen, just hard enough to feel good about throwing something but not hard enough to damage it. Mom would kill me a thousand times over if I broke the phone, she’d given me for Christmas last year. How is it possible to be genuinely proud of myself for going all day without texting him, but still be hurt and sad knowing he hasn’t texted me?

And why would I even expect him to? He hasn’t said a word to me since that cryptic text on Friday night. Who says they wish you were there and then ignores you when you really are there? A simple “screw you” would have been easier to handle.

The back door closes and Mom enters, her face hidden behind two massive fabric bags of groceries. I take one of the bags and she jumps, nearly dropping the other. “You scared me!” Mom says, her eyes going wide. “I didn’t think you’d be home yet.”

“It’s three thirty,” I say, setting the bag on the counter and digging through the contents. “What else would I possibly be doing? It’s not like I have spirit practice or anything.” My words are bitter, and she doesn’t say anything right away. I hope she feels guilty. She’d promised that she would talk with the principal and try to get me back into Deer Valley High, but it really feels like she’s not doing anything at all to fulfill that promise.

“What is all of this?” I say, curling my lip as I pull a huge green leafy bundle out of the bag. There’s also carrots, radishes, and an array of weird-looking lettuce in dark greens and purples.

“We’re having a nice salad for dinner,” Mom says, emptying even more vegetables from her bag. “It’s time this family eats healthy for once.”