The Breakup Support Group

I shouldn’t be allowed to feel annoyance when five minutes have passed, and Ciara still hasn’t popped out of her front door, bags of overnight clothes in her hand. I knew she would take forever. It’s not the waiting that bothers me—it’s being stuck in a car alone with only my own thoughts to keep me company. My own thoughts are being unkind right now.

They can’t stop thinking about him.

I’m on the track to hitting up my first frat party tonight, in what will surely be a gorgeous Ciara-done hairstyle and manicured nails, and we personally know the beer pong champion, and we’ll be surrounded by equally hot guys needing to unwind after a week of college classes. It’s the makings of a perfect Friday so why is he in my head?

It’s Emory’s fault that I feel this way. He said we were friends, and then he took me on a fake date and gave me the worst mind fuck ever. I stare at the digital clock on my car’s radio and watch two minutes tick by. I tell myself that if Ciara’s not back by the third … no fourth … minute then I’ll text Emory.

Five minutes pass, each one like a digital sword of anxiety slicing through my stomach. I try to think of all the things we’ve discussed in the Break Up Support Group over the last three and a half months. All of Bastian’s well-meaning advice, and those silly motivational quotes he says before and after each meeting. I think of Trish and her chill attitude, how she doesn’t let anything get to her besides the one girl she can’t stop loving. Xavier, and his ridiculous positive outlook on every chance he takes. At least he’s putting himself out there, taking chances. It’s better than what I’m doing, sitting here in misery wondering why things have suddenly grown so weird between me and Emory. I feel that somewhere in the universe, there is an Emory and an Isla who can go back to being the friends they used to be. I just need the right compass to get there.

I draw in a deep breath, look at the Stanton’s front door one last time, and take out my cell phone, typing the first thing that comes to me.

Isla: Hey remember that time we were friends? That was fun.

I look back at Ciara’s front door and then at the clock on my radio. She’s been in there seventeen minutes. Emory replies a few seconds later. My heart leaps into my throat as I stare at his name on my phone, suddenly scared to click on the message.

Emory: We’re still friends.

My thumbs fly across the screen before I can talk myself out of it.

Isla: Doesn’t feel like it.

The passenger door opens with a whoosh that drowns out my thoughts, and I nearly drop my phone. It buzzes, but Ciara sticks her head inside, handing me a cosmetic bag that’s twice the size of her normal backpack. I slide the phone back into my purse and save his reply for later. I’m not sure I can handle him telling me to get over it, or denying that anything is weird. And what did I expect him to say anyway?

Why yes, things are weird, and it’s because you like me as more than friends, so I’m staying away from you, you creepy lunatic?

I draw in a ragged breath. Maybe I should throw my phone off a cliff so I’ll never have to know what he replied. But there are no cliffs in Deer Valley. And Mom would probably kill me.

Ciara spends the entire drive to my house complaining about how overprotective her mother has become since Ciara turned sixteen last year. I nod along, but I’m not paying attention. I make it all the way home and into my bedroom before taking out my

phone, my hands trembling with the fear of facing the truth behind my lock screen.

“Can I borrow your iron?” Ciara says, pulling out a wrinkled mini dress from her bag.

“Sure. Check the laundry room.” I slide open my phone and scan the message, figuring I’ll get it over with and then get on with my night. If I’m lucky, whatever he has to say will officially piss me off, and I can just be done with him.

Emory: Sorry :(

I freeze in place, my socks on the purple fluffy rug in front of my bed. The single word coaxes warm tears from the corners of my eyes, and the burning sensation makes it hard to breathe. If I blink, it’s all over.

“You okay?” Ciara asks from the corner of my bed. She’s holding her wrinkled dress and peering at me with a worried expression.

Yeah. Only my mouth won’t say the word because there’s a lump in my throat. I manage to nod once, and then the floodgates open and I burst into tears.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Whoa.” Ciara rises, still clutching the dress which she then tosses to the bed. Her gaze lowers to the phone in my hand. “What happened?”

I shake my head, willing the knot in my chest to go away. “Nothing,” I say, shoving the phone in my back pocket. “I’m fine. Don’t you need an iron for that?”

She casts a glance back toward her wrinkled dress and then stares at me for a moment. “You’re crying, Isla. What’s wrong?”

My shoulders lift and stay there as I try to make my voice convincing enough to tell her that I am completely fine. And then I start crying again. Big, watery tears that spring from my eyes as if being held back for the last week has turned them into an unstoppable force. I shake my head and try to turn around, cry into my hands and be alone, but Ciara grabs my shoulder and pulls me into a hug.

“Tell momma what’s wrong,” she says soothingly, patting the back of my head.

I chuckle. “You’re not my mom,” I say into her shoulder.

She pulls me back, gripping me by the shoulders, and stares into my eyes. “It’s what my mom always says, and it’s pretty damn comforting. Now, take a deep breath and tell momma what’s wrong. If you don’t want to go to the party, we don’t have to.”