“I’m older than you,” he says.
She rolls her eyes. “Not old enough.”
“Don’t worry Isla,” Emory says. My knees go weak at the sound of my real name without his stupid mocking mispronunciation of it. “I don’t usually show up if one of my exes is here.” He makes a come here motion with his hand. “So let’s see that text.”
I shake my head, focusing on the leather bracelet around his wrist. A silver compass charm is woven into the center of the leather bands. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here. Let me guess … there was a special girl in your past, and she broke your heart. Now you’re a serial dater because no one will ever live up to her?”
There’s a moment of absolute silence in the art room. My eyes narrow as a smug satisfaction fills my bones. Then Emory shakes his head, slowly but it’s enough to let me know I’m wrong.
“Hardly,” he says with a snort. “I’m here by force, not choice.”
When he’s silent again, I look to Bastian for mo
re of an explanation. Bastian shrugs. “Mrs. Gertie sent him here because he’s broken too many hearts and she wants him to know what it feels like. She wants him to gain some empathy so he’ll stop his heart-shattering tirade.”
“Hey, I’m not an asshole,” Emory says slowly. Everything he says is measured, self-assured. It’s infuriating. “I make it very clear that I’m not looking to settle down with anyone. Girls say they’re cool with it, but they never are.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?” I ask.
Emory’s phone vibrates from the corner of the desk, and he picks it up, giving it a quick glance. Bastian tsks. “No phones allowed, man. You know the rules.”
“Calm down, it’s just my weather app.” Emory presses something on the screen, and his phone goes dark again. “Besides, Isla’s phone seems to be the topic of today’s meeting, and you’re not griping at her.”
“That’s different,” Bastian says with a heavy sigh. He’s been scribbling in his notebook for the last five minutes, and he takes a moment to drop his pen and flex his fingers. “Do you feel comfortable sharing with us now, Isla?”
“I guess.” Honestly, the anxiety over Nate’s unread text message has pretty much disappeared over the last few minutes. I simply can’t wrench my eyes away from Emory’s forearms and the muscular lines of his chest beneath his black shirt. His stupid freaking smile that always looks more like a smirk—I hate it, and I hate him. And yet I want to know what it’s like to be one of the girls he whispers to in the hallways. I want to be the recipient of that sultry smile, and I want to feel the touch of his hands pulling me close to him in the stairwell.
“Come on, girl. Let’s see the damn text!” Ciara slaps her palm on my desk, and I startle. Now all eyes are on me, not just Emory’s. I pick up my phone and slide the screen, then click the messages icon. Nate’s name is right at the top, bold because of the unread text. A rush of something—adrenaline? excitement?—flows through my veins at the anticipation of finally knowing what Nate had told me last night.
Sensing my hesitation, Bastian clears his throat. “This is a safe place, Isla. Everything shared in Break Up Support Group is confidential.”
“Okay then.” I swallow, looking around the group.
Emory’s eyes glisten. He drops a pizza crust into the now empty box on his desk. “My lips are sealed.”
There’s another vibrating sound and Ciara curses. “Dammit, Em. This is a tense moment. Put your damn phone away. Isla, read the text.”
Emory silences his phone and drops it into his jeans pocket. “Sorry. Weather app.”
“What kind of person has a weather app anyway?” I ask.
Emory’s head tilts to the side, his gaze burning into my soul. “People who care about weather.”
I roll my eyes. Ciara slaps my desk again. Trish and Xavier and Bastian are all leaning toward me, eyes wide and hopeful. “Let’s set the scene,” Bastian says, picking up his pen again. “The last time you talked to Nate was at last week’s football game, and he said he wished you were there. You told him you were there, and he simply ignored you. There has been no contact on his part since then, right?”
“Right,” I say, wishing I could dig a hole through the tile floor, crawl inside and cover myself with art supplies. It was humiliating enough telling the group this story yesterday. Now Emory hears every word. I sigh. “And then he texted me last night in the epitome of irony since I wasn’t supposed to text him, thanks to you guys.”
I hold up my phone so everyone can see it and then, with a trembling thumb, I press his name. My heartbeat quickens when I read the words from the guy I love—used to love—with all of my heart. It’s just one of the thousands of messages he’s sent me over the years, but this one hurts the worst. My eyes blur with the familiar tingle of warm tears.
Desks are shoved aside as Xavier and Trish move forward, leaning in to peer at my phone’s screen. Emory must be able to read the message from where he stands behind Trish because he lifts a brow and then looks away. “Damn,” he says under his breath.
There is a collective silence that stretches on for several moments. Even Bastian is at a loss for words, though he writes one final thing in his notebook before flipping it closed. The bell rings. Relief, or something like it, pours over me at the sound. “Well, there you have it,” I say, shoving up and out of the desk. I grab my stuff and take my pizza plate and toss it in the trashcan by the door. No one chases after me, and I am grateful for their kindness.
My phone is once again too heavy as I hold it in my hand, stepping into the throng of students in the hallways. Several dozen bodies fill the spaces around me, all rushing to their next class, and I take comfort in being able to blend into the crowd. Being the center of attention is overrated.
My feet walk quickly, carrying me around the corner and far away from the art room where every member of the support group is probably talking about how pathetic and sad it is to be me. I can never go back to a time where I hadn’t read the message, so I do the next best thing. I press on Nate’s name in my phone and delete the entire thread of texts, that way I’ll never have to read those words again.
Nate: So I’m starting to date again - just wanted you to hear it from me first.