The Breakup Support Group

A Wildcats cheerleader jogs through the crowd of people, holding two pom-poms in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. Her blue and white cheerleading uniform leaves very little to the imagination and the nude tights she wears makes her look even more flawless under the harsh track lights. She slows to a walk as she approaches us—or, Emory, rather.

“Hey, Em,” she says in a sultry southern drawl. She waves at him with her pom-pom hand.

“Hey.” He says it with an uninterested head nod, but she beams at his reply as if he’d just asked for her hand in marriage. The few seconds of resulting silence seem to take forever and I wish this girl would just hurry up and get on the field and out of my personal space with Emory.

When he doesn’t say anything else, she only looks mildly disappointed, her smile morphing into a grin. “See you around.”

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs, doing that slight head nod again.

When she’s out of earshot, I make a dramatic eye roll. “Okay, she has a ponytail.”

He lifts an eyebrow and eats another nacho chip. “So?”

“So, you made fun of me for my hairstyle but when princess blondie bounces over wearing the exact same hairstyle, you don’t seem to mind.”

“Why would I care what kind of hair she has?”

The lazy way he eats his nachos while I’m trying to have a serious conversation really grates on my nerves. “I don’t get you,” I say with a sigh. “But seriously, you should teach me your ways. I need more than one guy interested in me.” I swirl a chip around the cheese sauce. “Should I just start being an epic bitch to everyone? Then will guys flock to me the way girls flock to you?”

He pretends to ponder the question. In the distance, the marching band begins playing the Warriors’ fight song. “I don’t know if you can pull that off, snowflake.”

He smiles, tucking his bottle of water underneath his arm. Somehow, we’ve made it back to the fence that borders the football field and once again I’m faced with the fear of looking across the field toward the home side.

Cowardice takes over, and I look at Emory instead. “I’d give anything to have half of your apathy when it comes to dating,” I say. and my voice only cracks a little bit.

“Why’s that?” His voice is low, and it’s a struggle to hear him over the triumphant band music. He nudges me with his shoulder. He’s close enough to smell the citrusy laundry detergent on his clothing. “You’re a caring person. You shouldn’t force yourself to be something you aren’t.”

“So why are you so uncaring?” I ask, peering into his eyes, which are only a few inches away now. He flinches, and I know I’ve hit a sensitive topic with the guy who pretends to have no sensitivities at all. I should stop—shut up right now and say nothing more of it. But curiosity propels me forward. “Are you unable to date anyone seriously because you have, like, a million STDs?”

His lips twitch and then twist into a smile. “I can’t answer that question without embarrassing myself and my reputation.”

I make a face and take a step backward. “So you’re just crawling with diseases, huh? Gross.”

He rolls his eyes and steals another one of my chips. “You’re going to make me ruin my player reputation, huh?”

Somewhere in the distance, a coach blows a whistle and football players rush onto the field. “Please do ruin your player reputation,” I say. “Because now I’m so curious, I won’t let it go until you tell me.”

He sighs and turns, leaning his back against the fence. His eyes dart around, and he lowers his head toward me. “I don’t have sex with the girls I date. I drop them before it gets that far.”

All of the commotion all around us—the band, the players and the shouts from cheerleaders—it all fades into the distance as I watch Emory gaze at me with his defenses down. And I know without a doubt that he’s telling the truth.

I speak slowly. “So … why do you date so many girls if the end game isn’t sex?”

“I guess I keep hoping one of these girls will turn into the one, but deep down I know that won’t ever happen.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ve spent seventeen years watching my parents constantly screw other people and act like it’s not a big deal. For a while, I thought it didn’t have to be that way. I mean, I saw all the Disney films and shit. True love and all that. But I see now that waiting for a true love is exactly what the movies want you to think it is—a fairy tale.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and resist the urge to pull him into a hug. “Why don’t your parents just get divorced?

He shrugs. “Money. And cynicism, I guess. They have an agreement—I don’t know.” His tongue runs across his bottom lip, and he pulls off the label from his water bottle. “Despite what you think of me, I do at least try to consider sex to be a big deal. Something that should happen between two people who care about each other.”

“Wow,” I say.

His eyes narrow at me. “You’re not to tell anyone in support group this.”

I nod and press my lips together while I try to process all of this new information about Emory. Another girl approaches us, holding the hand of a kid who appears to be her little brother.

“Emory!” she says with a shriek of excitement. “I never see you at football games!”

He eats another chip. “First time for everything,” he says, staring into the tray of nachos as he speaks.