The Breakup Support Group

Ciara: Always.

My sad reflection stares up at me in the phone screen, and I try to type out a reply. I start with: Everything in my room reminds me of him. What the hell am I supposed to do? But then I delete that and start over with: I can’t stand thinking about him. Before I can send the text, my phone rings. Startled, I answer her call.

“Hey, um, you didn’t have to call me. I was just going to vent through text.”

“Are you kidding? Texting is for ex-boyfriends and family members. I’m here for you, girl. What’s up?”

I know she’s just being a good support group member, but my two best friends from Deer Valley only called instead of texting if someone was dying or on fire. Which is to say, never. I slouch forward as I sit on the edge of my bed. “Well … I just got home, and I’m in my room trying not to freak out because every damn thing in here reminds me of Nate. Either he gave it to me, or he was with me when I got it, or he used to play with it in my room.” I glance over at the sand sculpture picture frame on my desk. All of the sand had fallen in its current position on the last time he flipped the frame over. I haven’t touched it since. I don’t think I can touch it again.

“I can imagine,” Ciara says. “You were together a long time. That’s … I can’t even fathom four years. My longest relationship was eleven months and five days, and it turns out Angelo had been cheating on me for the last month before that so …”

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

She snorts into the phone. “No girl, don’t be sorry. This call is about you. My experience in long-term breakups is like, zero, but I’d say it’ll probably be harder on you than anyone else in the group. You’ve been in the longest relationship, but that doesn’t mean you?

??ll never heal. It just means it’ll take longer.”

That’s not nearly as comforting as I think she hopes it will be. “How long? I’m ready to be done with all of this heartache.”

There’s the sound of a door closing on her end of the phone and then she says, “Sounds like you’ve made the official decision to get over him?”

Now I’m the one who snorts. “Seems like he made that decision for me.”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice sad. “So listen … don’t lie to me. Did you reply to him?”

“Hell no.”

My quick reply must please her because she chuckles into the phone. “Good. That’s my girl. Okay, so what’s our plan to get over this?”

“You mean you don’t already have a plan?” I ask, mostly joking, but a little bit disappointed. “I called you to get the plan, not to have to think one up.”

She laughs. “First thing—get rid of all of his reminders. Anything he gave you, toss it out.”

I bite my lip, and when I don’t say anything, she continues, “Or throw it in the back of your closet for now.”

I sigh and stand up, looking around my room. “I guess I could do that.” I take the Audrey Hepburn canvas off the wall and toss it to the back of my closet, right next to where Nate’s old letterman hangs. Then I hide the nail polish bottle in a drawer and roll up the rug, shoving it under my bed. There’s still about a thousand more items to pack up and hide, but already I’m feeling a little better.

“Don’t forget Facebook,” she says, and as if on cue, I hear her typing on a keyboard in the background. “Oh damn, Isla,” she says, tsking.

I stop throwing stuff into the back of my closet. “What?”

“You have like, infinity billion photos of this boy on here.”

My heartstrings twist in on themselves. “There’s no way I can delete them right now.”

“You’re going to have to. How will you date other guys if your social media pages are plastered with this boy’s face … damn. Holy shit.”

My heart speeds up. “What?”

“Nothing. Just … the bastard is sexy as hell. I can see why you’re hurt over him.”

I haven’t been on Facebook in a few weeks, but I know the last thing I uploaded was photos from our trip to the beach at the end of summer. I’d taken a lot of shirtless Nate photos that day. I roll my eyes. “Are you looking at the beach photos?”

Her reply is just a carnal sound. “Mmmhmm.”

“Ugh.”

“I’m sorry. Delete them.”