The Breakup Support Group

“Buy it,” I say, rising from the armchair I’d been sitting in to watch her mini fashion show. “It’s completely perfect.”

She peers down her body in the reflection of the mirror. “Trey won’t see me as a high school girl anymore, that’s for sure.”

“Who’s Trey?” Mom asks, her arms full of my potential dress options.

Ciara puts a hand on her chest, and her eyes sparkle. “He’s my brother’s friend and he is ridiculously hot. He goes to A&M for engineering, and he totally agreed to take me to the dance.”

“A college guy?” Mom says, looking weirdly impressed instead of horrified. “You better make sure he treats you like a lady.”

“Don’t worry. My brother would kill him if he tried anything.” Ciara walks back to her dressing room and opens the door, turning back to give us a sneaky grin. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t try something.”

Mom laughs, but as soon as Ciara closes the door behind her, she turns to me in full Mom Mode. “You better not let your date get handsy.”

“Handsy?” I fake a gagging noise. “You didn’t care when Nate got handsy.”

“That’s because I knew Nate. And you were on birth control. You’re still taking it, right?”

“Yes, Mom,” I say, which is more of a groan as I feel my cheeks go red.

Ciara emerges from the dressing room, clutching her beautiful white strapless dress. “Now that I have found my dress, Mrs. Rush and I can dedicate ourselves to finding you the perfect one. Lord knows I won’t be seen standing next to you if you look like Cinderella before her fairy godmother took over.”

She rushes over to a collection of shorter dresses, ones that I had specifically been avoiding due to how sexy they look on the rack. It means they’re probably even better looking on a real person, and although I used to get as gorgeous as possible for dates with Nate, I’m not sure I want to be sexy for this fake date with Emory.

I tell myself it’s because I’m a logical person who doesn’t think dressing up is prudent for a friend date. But in reality, I know and fear that the real reason I’d rather show up looking average and boring is that if I did look hot and Emory rejected me, I’d feel like an even bigger failure than when I became Nate’s ex-girlfriend. Emory has dated beautiful girls and rejected even more average ones. I don’t want to become another statistic in his screwed up dating life.

An hour later, I’m in the dressing room for the millionth time, trying on any and every dress my mother and friend have thrown at me. The sexy cocktail dresses and the long flowy ones that look more like prom gowns. The lacy and satiny and bright and pastel. Every possible type of dress they’ve given me has been tried on, scowled at, and tossed into the no pile.

I throw open the dressing room door and hold out a bright yellow dress covered in intricate beading work. Ciara takes it and frowns. “No? I kind of liked this one.”

I draw in a deep breath and slowly let it out, dragging my hands down my face while my entourage looks on. “Sorry, I just don’t think I’m going to find a dress.”

“You’d better,” Ciara says, sliding the yellow dress back onto the hanger. “You’re running out of time, and I refuse to let you back out of homecoming.”

“We could take a break and try again later,” Mom says.

I shake my head. “No. We need to get this over with. It’s just a stupid dance.” I sigh and walk over to a clearance rack of dresses that we haven’t touched yet. “Just pick everything in my size,” I say, flipping through the random selection until I find one that will fit me and throw it over my shoulder. I head back into the dressing room and lock the door behind me, leaving Mom and Ciara scouting for more dresses.

I pull off my shirt and stare at myself in the narrow mirror, seeing nothing but an exhausted girl who is tired of running from

pain. So what if Emory doesn’t think I’m the hottest girl at the dance? So what if he does? This entire thing is just a stupid set up by the school so that students can get some kind of “traditional high school experience” that we’ll totally forget about by the time we’re adults.

So who cares?

My phone goes off. I turn to the hook on the wall where my purse is hanging and reach inside, taking out my phone as I kick my shorts down to my ankles. A cold wave pulses through my chest as I look at the number on my phone. Emory just texted me again.

I slide the screen and read his message:

Emory: You too cool to reply to my text?

My brows draw together as my heart does a little leap of joy. He was expecting a reply from last night? I can’t help but grin at the idea of Emory sitting at home, watching his phone and waiting for a text from me. There’s no way that happened. But maybe it did.

Isla: I didn’t know if I should.

My phone beeps instantly with his reply.

Emory: Why’s that?

Isla: I don’t know. We never exchanged numbers to become texting friends.