The Breakup Support Group

“We’re friends, Iz-la. You can just ask if I took a girl with me.”

I pretend to look confused, but I know that’s fooling no one. Emory finds a parking space near the back of the lot and cuts the engine. “You want to pull that for me?” he asks, gesturing to where my hand lies wrapped around the parking brake.

I lift the rod and the brake clicks into place. With the motor off, the sudden silence awakens a swarm of nervous butterflies in my stomach. I still want to know the answer to the road trip question, but I’m not about to ask it again.

Emory’s shoulders straighten as he turns to look at me. “Okay, so, homecoming,” he says, pressing his hands against the center console. “Now that we’re officially here, let’s switch this into date mode.”

“Date mode?” I ask. The butterflies find a way to freak out even more.

He nods. “This can’t be just me and you hanging out at some stupid high school dance. This is for the support group, as part of the therapy that our fearless leader Bastian, who has no formal training, by the way, has assigned to you.”

Oh. Right.

I plaster on a bored expression and wait for him to continue. I do not think about how gorgeous his eyes look from the glow of the dome light overhead.

Emory pulls the car keys out of the ignition and stares at them while he talks. “From now on, I’m not the Emory you know. I’m just a guy, named Emory, who asked you on a date.”

“So this is some kind of role-playing?” I ask.

His tongue flicks across his bottom lip. He does that a lot, not that I’m complaining. “It’s role-playing for me. I’m just a normal guy taking you on a normal date. I think Bastian would want you to be yourself, a normal girl, who is new to the dating scene.” He levels a gaze at me and my heartbeat quickens. “You can’t go into this thinking it’s just me, your friend. Pretend I’m some guy you just met and just go with it.” He smiles. “Just enjoy the date, okay? And no comparing it to when you dated that other guy.”

My chest rises. This entire night is a ruse, one where I am a willing participant. It’s all for the support group. It’s all for the sake of healing my broken heart and moving on. I pop open my car door. “Let’s do this.”

“So, um,” Emory says, walking around the car to me. “You’re new to this school, right? How do you like it so far?”

I roll my eyes and play along with this ruse. “It’s okay, I guess. I miss my old school a little bit less each day.”

“I’m glad you agreed to be my date,” he says, holding out his elbow. I tuck my arm into his, and we fall into step together, walking toward the front entrance of the school.

“Well, you know,” I say, deciding that if I’m going to play along with this pretend date, then I might as well go all out, “I had several date options, but I chose you so don’t screw it up.”

“I don’t intend on it.” Emory’s eyes meet mine and for a few seconds, the entrance of the school blurs into the background, mixing with the other students and teacher chaperones until nothing else matters but that one dimple in Emory’s smile. I get the feeling he reserves that smile for special occasions.

Granite Hills High has been transformed into a Starry Night, with balloons and lights and waves of fabric that accentuate the homecoming theme to perfection. Blue sparkly balloons make an archway in front of the main hallway that leads into the gym. Emory and I walk arm in arm down the hallway basked in a purple-blue glow. The walls are covered in dark blue tulle with hundreds of strands of clear lights behind them.

“Hey, Em,” a short girl with black ringlets of hair says, all while holding on to her date’s hand.

He gives her a nod, and I find myself sliding my hand down his forearm until, in a moment of perfect sync, he reaches up and grabs my palm. Our fingers lace together at the entrance of the gym, and a shudder ripples through my body.

“Wow.” I breathe as we step into what used to be a basketball court. “They know how to decorate for a dance at this school.”

Emory snorts, tugging me toward the right so we get out of the way of the dozen senior girls who just flounced into the gymnasium, smelling of perfume and alcohol. “The budget for this probably cost more than my car.”

Above us, the metal roof railings are covered in blue and silver drapes of shimmery fabric that pull together in the center, making several massive circles that cover the ceiling. In the middle of each one is a disco ball that casts shimmery stars all over the floor. There’s a celestial balloon star to the right and a photographer taking pictures of happy couples standing in the center of it.

Ice sculptures of shooting stars line the food table, which is highlighted by tiers of blue iced cupcakes taller than I am. The punch bowl is a fountain, pouring a blue drink over the edges of the crystal like a whimsical waterfall.

A live band plays from a silver stage in the center of the room, giving everyone a three hundred and sixty-degree experience of the music. Students are everywhere, laughing and dancing and being glamorous party versions of themselves.

“What shall we do first?” Emory asks. “Get some electric blue punch or dance to whatever the hell this band is playing?”

I consider the options. No less than two girls are currently staring at us, yet I don’t feel the same way I did when I’d field jealous stares from girls at Deer Valley High. Those girls wanted to be me because I had Nate. They were friendly, eager to join my second tier club of Spirit girls. These girls offer nothing more than venom in their stares.

“Let’s dance,” I say.

“Good call. We’ll wait until the punch is spiked. He flashes me a wink and leads me onto the dance floor.

I’ve danced with Nate a dozen times. At least once at the beginning of every school dance we went to, followed by another slow dance when they did last call. The rest of the time dances were usually spent hanging out with groups of our friends or getting crazy with my girlfriends during the fast songs. So I’m no stranger to the art of holding on to a guy and swaying back and forth while casually staring into each other’s eyes.