The Breakup Support Group

Ciara scoffs. “Hell if I know. I just said what it took to make you look like a badass.”

Oh. “How did he seem when you told him? Like was he …”

“Isla, no,” she says, stopping my mumbled line of questioning. “You don’t need to know how he took it. You’re over him, remember?”

“Right,” I say, feeling as though my whole body itches and I’ll never be able to scratch it. “I remember.”

Friday tumbles by like the fall leaves Dad blasts away from the curb with his grass blower. Classes are over, and the final bell rings and I am home, in my own room, before it even feels like I’ve started the day. My head stings with a biting headache as pain claws up the side of my temples. Either I’m suffering from a lack of sleep last night or a lack of caffeine from the coffee Emory never brought me in first period because he wasn’t there today. Or both. Probably both.

I’m fumbling with the stainless steel coffee maker, trying to get the plastic flap thing to open when Mom walks in from work and sets a box of green and gold spray paint cans on the table. “Need some help?” she offers, reaching over and opening the thing with that mom-like ease that only she can do.

“Thanks,” I say, grinning at the prospect of chugging a cup of coffee for the first time today. I’ve come to crave the stuff after weeks of morning coffee with Emory.

“Why the afternoon caffeine fix?” Mom asks, taking out each spray can and lining them up by color. “If you’re bored, you could come with me to the game tonight.”

“I have a date, remember?”

“Ah, that’s right,” she says, giving me a knowing smile, as if we’re both in on the same joke. “When will Emory be here?”

“Oh, no, it’s um …” I say, watching the coffee drip into my mug and wishing it would whisper the right words to me.

“No Emory?” Her brows pull together for just a fraction of a second and then she’s back to that Cheer Coach Smile, polite and simple. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have fun tonight no matter what you do. Just be sure to come home by curfew.”

Curfew. I hadn’t had one when I went to homecoming. “Still ten thirty?” I ask, pulling the coffee mug to my lips as I shoot up a silent prayer that this conversation will not trail to more questions about Emory. “I mean, I’m almost eighteen so—”

“Still ten thirty,” she says cheerfully, avoiding the topic. “I’m heading out soon, but have fun, honey.”

I’m not exactly sure what a college guy will think about going out with a girl who has to be home to her mommy and daddy by freaking ten thirty at night, but by the time I’ve finished showering, I have a good excuse. I’ll pretend to get sick just before curfew.

Lies on the first date? my inner Break Up Support Group says. Not a good idea. How will you ever find meaning in a relationship if you start it out that way?

I tell my inner self to shut her stupid trap. I never lied to Nate and where did that get me? Dumped. Tossed aside as a worthless girlfriend and fed to the wolves.

And now one of those wolves is taking me out to dinner and a movie. I tell myself that if I’m the only girl on David’s mind—at least for tonight—that I’ll be okay. I need this. This is healing.

I tell myself the same kind of thing, in fifty different ways, as I dress into a shimmery cream-colored tank top I’d borrowed from Ciara and a pair of the tightest jeans I own. There are rhinestone swirls on the butt pockets, and I roll up the cuffs before stepping into my lucky bright red heels.

At six-fifty, I push back the wooden chair from my vanity and rise, taking in the sight of me in the oval mirror. I wonder if David will be early or late, or perfectly on time. I wonder what Dad will say when he sees him standing at the door, looking way older than a student a Granite Hills High should look. I decide I don’t care.

I am no longer Isla Rush, the broken-hearted idiot who gave everything to a guy who doesn’t know what he wants with his future. I’m Isla Rush—a dater.

My phone beeps at six fifty-four.

David: I’m almost there. Meet me outside?

A twinge of something I can’t describe slips into my stomach but I push it away and text back: Yep.

David’s silver Chevy truck sidles up next to the curb a couple of minutes later. Right on time. I pull open the passenger door and David, wearing jeans as dark as mine and a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, gives me a grin.

“Hey there,” he says, his lips parting wider as he watches me get inside. Should I lean in and hug him or something? I don’t know, so I pull on my seatbelt instead. For the first time since the party last weekend, I wonder if maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. Like maybe I should have spent a week or two getting to know him before committing to this date.

“You look hot as hell,” David says.

I let my eyes do the flirting for me. “You’re welcome.”

He chuckles as he pulls onto the road. “I like that. You’re a no-nonsense chick. Just right to the point. I really like that.”

Star Cinema is the complete opposite of Hastings. It’s a massive building, for one, and was built this decade. There are thirty movie screens, and all of them serve food along with the meal. David buys our tickets, and I find myself reaching for his hand as we walk into the luxuriously carpeted lobby. His fingers lace through mine, his grip strong and warm.