The Breakup Support Group

I look away, and he steps closer, leaving just a few inches between us. His hair falls into his eyes, and I have to stop myself from brushing it to the side. I am keenly aware that I am now the girl in the stairwell with Emory Underwood.

He is the worst sort of guy to have a crush on. And yet I revel in every second I’m here with him.

“Seems like you enjoy hurting girls,” I say. He lifts a lazy eyebrow, and I continue, “I feel sorry for any girl who gets close to you.”

“And I feel sorry for a girl who wastes four years of her life on a guy who will only break her heart anyway.”

I swallow and stare at the black Chuck Taylors on his feet. “That was low, asshole.” The lump in my throat swells to a familiar size and every bad, dark thought about Nate comes back into my heart, tearing me open again. And again and again. A tear rolls down my cheek, and the two-minute warning bell rings, and I desperately want to walk away from Emory, but my feet are stuck on this narrow stair ledge.

“Hey,” he says softly, his head bending to meet my gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—” His thumb is on my cheek, and he wipes away the tear, replacing it with the tingle of his skin on mine. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

I shake my head, finding the courage to look up. “You’re not sorry,” I say, grabbing his arm and pushing him away. I turn back to the stairs and take them two at a time. “You don’t know me, and you don’t know Nate. We had something special, and you’ll just never understand it.”

“I do know you, Isla.” He meets me at the next level, stepping in front of me so I can’t go anywhere. There are a few students near the fourth-floor landing, rushing to their next class. We’ll both be late if we don’t leave now.

“You don’t know me at all,” I say with a shaky sigh.

He shakes his head. “You think you’re not like the girls you see me with.”

I nod sarcastically. “Well, that part is right.”

I move to the left, and he moves too, blocking me. “You’re one of those girls who thinks she’s a special snowflake. You think the rules of casual dating don’t apply to you because you’re worth it—you’re the kind of girl a guy can settle down with, or at least that what you’ve told yourself. But you’re not special, Isla.” He shrugs apathetically and gives me a somber look. I should punch him in the stomach, but I’m frozen in place by his words. “I mean, sure, you’re beautiful, and that gives you an advantage, but you’re still just another girl. Guys don’t care about snowflakes because they aren’t looking for one. They’re just looking for someone to keep them happy until a shiny new replacement comes along.”

“You’re such an asshole,” I mutter.

He nods, pressing his lips together. “Probably. But at least I’m not trying to be a special snowflake.”

My legs find the strength to move, and I shove past him and into the hallway. “That’s a stupid analogy. I’ve never even seen snow, much less a snowflake.”

“Really?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested in my lack of weather experiences. “That’s a shame. Snow is beautiful, just like you.”

“Stop talking to me. We are not friends.”

He sighs and jogs to catch up with me. “Asshole or not, I’m actually trying to help you. Once you stop thinking you’re the snowflake in a blizzard of other girls, you’ll be able to heal and move on with your life.”

I reach the door to my physics class and feel a sweeping relief as I step across the threshold. Emory’s hand grabs mine and pulls me back into the hallway. We are nearly eye to eye now, standing just outside of Mr. Brown’s physics class. Students sweep by, knocking into my backpack as they slip into class, but Emory doesn’t take his eyes off mine. His hand only squeezes mine tighter as the seconds go by. His clean scent is overwhelming.

“Isla,” he says, taking a breath. “Hate me all you want, but I’m not the guy who broke your heart. I’m the guy trying to help you fix it.”

Chapter Fourteen

After school, I lie back on my bed and take inventory of my life now. If Nate is already moving on, then I’ll be damned if I sit here and let him move on without me. It’s time to officially pack up my old life, toss it in a furnace and start over again, no matter how much the idea hurts me.

I’ll start with my bedroom. There isn’t a single piece of furniture that doesn’t remind me of Nate. From my espresso-stained wooden headboard that used to be white until Nate helped me stain it one weekend, to the dark purple rug on the floor by my dresser—it all reminds me of him. Photos of us line the mirror on my vanity and fill the bulletin board on the back side of my closet door. The canvas image of Audrey Hepburn was a Christmas gift from him two years ago.

The bright red nail polish stain near the windowsill was from the night I was painting my toes, and he barged in my room to surprise me. I’d knocked over the bottle and complained so much that he’d taken me to Sephora the next day to replace the nail polish. My head rolls to the right. The new bottle sits on my nightstand. Everything reminds me of him.

I throw my arm across my eyes and let out a breath. How am I supposed to move on from Nate when nearly everything I own holds some memory of him?

I can feel the tears pooling in my eyes again, and I clench my teeth and sit up in bed, refusing to cry. I am so sick of crying. I’m sick of being hurt. This has gone on long enough. I didn’t ask for any of this to happen, and now I am stuck in my room with no one to talk to, no one who knows what I’m going through.

An idea comes to me, and it’s kind of weird that I didn’t think of it earlier. After school today, Ciara had found me in the parking lot and gave me her phone number, saying to text her at any time. She didn’t even ask about the text we’d all seen in the support group, didn’t waste both of our times with stupid questions like asking how I was doing. She knows exactly how I’m doing.

Taking great pains not to look at anything Nate-related in my room, I find my purse on the floor and take out my phone, where I’d saved her number.

Isla: Do you have a minute to talk? :)

A few seconds later, she replies.