The Break-Up Artist

by Philip Siegel

  The door’s wide-open (well, actually there’s no door), and we join the dense crowd. Sweat beads form on my forehead. This is Chris Gomberg’s party times fifty, except nobody has a history here. People scope out Huxley and me, but not because they know us. There’s no decade-long backstory branded on our foreheads. It’s freeing having a clean slate for once.

  We push into a narrow hall and enter the stream of people going somewhere. Huxley looks like she wants to bathe in Purell. I’ll bet more than the heat and claustrophobia, Huxley hates not being recognized.

  She peeks into a common room where girls and guys dance on plaid wingback chairs and an antique wood coffee table. My phone buzzes, and I remember that Ezra texted me earlier.

  Where’ve you been? We need to talk. Can I see you this weekend?

  “No sign of him,” Huxley says.

  I can’t ignore him forever. I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt Val, but this is my life, too. If she’s such a proponent of love and relationships, then she will have to understand. Nobody’s perfect, even best friends. I imagine Ezra and I talking about what happens next, and some more kissing.

  I text back: Let’s meet up tomorrow night at 8. I can’t wait to see you!

  “Who can’t you wait to see?”

  I try to hide my phone, but Huxley’s too fast. I guess since we had a heart-to-heart, she believes she can know every detail of my life now. My face turns redder than a Solo cup as she scrolls through my messages.

  “Wow, Rebecca. I had no idea.”

  “I’m not a home wrecker,” I blurt out, which makes me sound super guilty. Looking for a distraction, I zero in on the keg and wait in line behind two guys with an aversion to grooming. We use their mushroom-cloud hair as cover in case Steve should come through.

  “Do you love him?” Huxley asks, cutting to the heart of the matter.

  I search for a definite answer. “I don’t know.”

  “I thought you and Val were close friends.”

  “We are!”

  “Would you throw away that relationship for one with Ezra?”

  How is Huxley so good with questions? She doesn’t mince words. Stalling, I glance to my left. A girl sips her beer and makes a stink face, then proceeds to pour out the rest of it on the carpet. I don’t even want to see Huxley’s reaction.

  “‘Throwing away’ sounds so harsh. It’s more complicated than that,” I say.

  “Not really. You are freely hooking up with her boyfriend. Why should she stay friends with you?”

  “Because we’re best friends.” My head spins with guilt. I can’t live in a world where Val and I aren’t speaking. But does that mean I have to stay away from Ezra? I don’t want to live in that world either.

  “I don’t know what to do. I can’t be with him, but I want to so badly.”

  Huxley sizes me up. A satisfied smile is planted on her face, like she knows something I don’t.

  “You don’t love him,” she says matter-of-factly.

  Her confident tone ticks me off.

  “You two sound like star-crossed lovers, and as you pointed out in English class, that makes you quote-unquote ‘full-on crazy.’ Knowing you shouldn’t be with Ezra makes you want him more.”

  I’m shocked that Huxley was listening to me that day, and that she could quote me.

  “Maybe Romeo and Juliet were in love,” I say.

  “No. They weren’t full-on crazy, but definitely up there.” Huxley laughs at me, the first time she’s relaxed today. “What drew them together was the excitement of getting caught. That’s not love.”

  “Or maybe they just fell for each other under really cruddy circumstances.”

  “But what would’ve happened when things calmed down, when Romeo didn’t have to recite sonnets and get in sword fights? What would they be like on a random Tuesday? The couples that thrive on drama flame out the quickest. I’ve seen it a million times.”

  I had a bunch of witty retorts, but they all fade away. I’m left gawking at my foamy beer, shocked that Huxley Mapother said something so...un-Huxley Mapother-ish. Do Ezra and I think we’re star-crossed lovers? Maybe that’s part of the excitement I feel when I think about him, knowing that I shouldn’t be thinking about him.

  “And also, I have a feeling Ezra is the first guy who was ever into you. Am I right?”

  She may be right, but I still find it rude. She reads my clenched expression.

  “I thought so.”

  He wasn’t my first kiss, though. I made out with a guy at a Model UN convention last year. He was from Ghana—at the convention, not in real life.

  Huxley clinks my cup, and we drink. Now I know what sewer water tastes like.

  “This is all so new for you,” she says. “I was in your shoes once, and I’m not condescending. I really was. I remember the mouthwash that fell out of Steve’s pocket, and that moment when I knew he was going to kiss me and my life was going to change forever. It’s so exhilarating. I think that’s what you like about Ezra. You like that he likes you.”

  I scoff at the remark. “That sounds like Val.”

  “Well, that’s why you two are best friends. You’re so alike. Honestly, I’m kind of jealous of the relationship you guys have. I don’t have that with any of my friends.”

  “I shouldn’t throw it away.” The epiphany knocks me to the ground. I don’t care that I’m wearing a nice skirt. I sit cross-legged on the grimy floor, much to Huxley’s dismay. She’s right—I fell for the relationship crap, just like Val. Val just vocalizes what I refuse to say. I thought I was stronger than that. I thought I couldn’t be duped.

  I’m half relationship zombie.

  “I know what you need.” A guy in a baby-blue polo and cargo shorts grabs my free hand and pulls me up off the floor. He yells into my ear. I could get drunk off his breath. “You need. To do. A keg stand.”

  “A what?”

  “It’ll be good clean fun! I promise,” he says in his Southern twang, which is impossible not to swoon over. It’s the American version of a British accent.

  “Um, sure.”

  He takes my hand. Huxley clutches my other hand and pulls me away. “No. You’re not doing a keg stand. You’re wearing a skirt, Rebecca!”

  We hear a holler loud enough to overpower the noise, and Greg Baylor barges into the far end of the hall. Beer stains streak his Chandler University T-shirt, but he certainly isn’t letting that get him down.

  “It’s the beer train!” he says to the three girls behind him. “Chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga.”

  Huxley and I turn away from him. We push through the tightly packed partygoers, who are magically parting for Greg’s train. We keep our heads down as he gets closer.

  He stops at the keg, while Huxley and I flee into the common room. We sidestep around grinding girls and pass a contemplative foursome of wallflowers who came to the wrong place for conversation. Rows of house photos line the room.

  In the photos, the boys look like respectable gentlemen. A guy in his underwear and a cowboy hat races past us, grazing Huxley’s boobs.

  Pictures can be so deceiving.

  We squeeze into a circle three people deep that lines the dining room table. They’re cheering something that I can’t see.

  “That was close!” I say.

  “If Greg’s here, then Steve has to be close.”

  Very close.

  Like right in front of us.

  In the center of the circle is Steve, taking body shots off two blondes in bikinis lying on the dining table.

  He slurps down both shots without looking up and garners whoops and hollers. Some Southern guy even yells, “Yee-haw!”

  Steve smiles so wide that his teeth may fall out of his mouth.

  “I need some air,” Huxley say
s.

  * * *

  Flying first class isn’t as fun on the return trip. I can’t enjoy my tortellini centimeters from an ailing Huxley.

  I keep thinking about the couples I’ve broken up. I plot and scheme, but I’m never present for the personal anguish that comes with breaking up. I’ve never had to watch it firsthand.

  “What are you going to do? Are you going to break up with him?”

  Huxley locks eyes with me. Her misery has hardened into determination. “No. I’m going to fight for the guy I love.” She sips on her water. “What are you going to do about Ezra?”

  The pilot makes an announcement that we’re getting ready to land. It’s time to reenter reality, and I’m prepared.

  33

  Ezra meets me at a Dunkin’ Donuts near my house. My heart has a mild gush when he sits down at the table. I can’t help it. It’s not fully on board with my head yet.

  “Hey there! You’ve come out from hiding.” He reaches for my hand. I yank it back into my lap. His eyebrows squiggle in confusion.

  “We need to talk.”

  “This sounds ominous.”

  “It kind of is.”

  “Listen, I know you’re upset about the whole Val thing. But it will get done.”

  I gaze into his hazel eyes one last time. They reflect the glint of waning sunlight pouring through the window. They’re beautiful, and that’s about it.

  They’re just eyes.

  “I can’t date you.”

  He slumps back in his chair and shakes his head a bunch. “I thought we had something.”

  “We did, but Val and I have something stronger.”

  “I really could see myself falling in—”

  “But could you? Really?” I notice how easily he throws that word around. It seems like it loses its power the more it’s said.

  Ezra shrugs his shoulders, resigned to my decision, which he’s figured out won’t change. “I guess it’s like the end of Casablanca. I have to let you get on that plane.”

  “What do you think would’ve happened if Ilsa didn’t get on that plane? She and Rick would’ve gotten bored with each other once things died down.” I rein myself in. I’m already breaking up with the guy. I don’t have to ruin his favorite movie. “I’m sorry, Ezra. You’re a good guy, honestly.”

  “Thanks.”

  That wasn’t so bad. Maybe messy break-ups are only for immature people.

  “I know I don’t have any business asking you any favors, but this time, when you break up with Val, please do it in person. She’s a good person, and she deserves that much.”

  “Who says I’m breaking up with Val?” Ezra takes a bite of his donut. He rubs the smear of chocolate frosting from the corner of his mouth and licks it off his fingers.

  “What? But you aren’t into her!”

  “Val and I have had our ups and downs, but maybe there’s something there.”

  “There isn’t.” Five minutes ago, he was all set to break up with her. It will get done. He was ready to cross it off his list like taking out the trash. Now he flipped a switch, and he’s back on the “falling in love with Val” track?

  “I have to give things a real chance.”

  “And then you’re just going to dump her when something better comes along?”

  “You make it sound so crass. I can’t control the way I feel.”

  “You’re disgusting.” I was going to get something to drink, but now I just want to leave. This can’t be the same Ezra I swooned over, but here he is, in all his selfish glory. “You think you’re some expert on romance, but you don’t know anything.”

  “You’ve never had a boyfriend. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’re right. I’ve never had a boyfriend. But you’ve gone through multiple girlfriends. Whenever things stop being all first kisses and warm gooey centers, you bail. You hit one tiny bump in the road, and you’re on to the next.” He’s gone before you know it, Isabelle told me at the party. She was plastered, but still, she was right. He probably thinks one argument will lead him to the relationship his parents had. I shake my head, angrier at myself than him.

  The high I had been on comes to a startling, crashing halt. “I’m such an idiot. I actually started to believe all that shit about love.”

  Diane has never been more right.

  The real Ezra looks up and to the left. It’s no longer cute. It just makes him look like a brat. He doesn’t say anything back. He’s not used to being criticized. He preys on girls so eager to be loved, so hungry for a boyfriend, they’d never say a mean thing about him. And my best friend is his current victim. He’ll keep stringing Val along until he finds someone else. I won’t let him give her any more firsts.

  “I’m telling Val,” I say.

  “Telling her what?”

  “Everything.” I head toward the door. Ezra runs in front of me and blocks the passageway.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks. “You think I’m the one she’s going to be mad at?”

  “You think she’ll be mad at me?”

  “Her best friend hooks up with her boyfriend behind her back. She’ll never forgive you. I had a temporary lapse in judgment. I was upset by our recent fights and ran into your open, waiting arms. You should’ve known better.”

  He’s right, and we both know it. He grins like a sore winner. What was I thinking?

  “Do you think Val will willingly go back to being single?”

  My eyes widen with shock. I made out with the scum of the earth. Multiple times.

  “You are pathetic,” I say, though I don’t know which one of us I’m talking to.

  * * *

  My mom has a dinner plate covered in plastic waiting for me. She and my dad watch Love Actually—she on the Throne, he on the couch. Never cuddled together, of course. Maybe they have the right idea. They gave each other a normal life in the burbs with all the trappings. They didn’t let some fruitless search for love constantly upend their lives.

  “Becca, where are you going?” my mom asks.

  I stop at the foot of the stairs with my dinner in hand. “I’m going to eat in my room. I’m really tired.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I just had a long weekend.”

  The phone rings when I’m halfway to the second floor.

  “Becca, can you get that?” my mom asks. It will take an act of nature to pull either of my parents from their seats—a downside to owning comfy furniture.

  I pick up the kitchen phone hung next to the fridge. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Rebecca Williamson.”

  And I just stepped on a land mine. I grab the fridge door to steady myself. I know that voice, and I shouldn’t be hearing it on the house line.

  “Mr. Towne?”

  I run into my mom’s alteration room with the phone and lock the door.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “I’m not the best with technology, but I got a buddy who was able to track something called an IP address to your computer. Found your computer and your name as the registered user. As for your actual number, I just looked you up in the phone book.” Mr. Towne speaks in a genial, chatty manner, barely concealing a menacing undertone. For the first time, I’m scared.

  “I’d prefer if we kept our correspondence limited to email,” I say.

  “I wanted to, as well, but this is just taking too long, and I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy. But I’m taking care of it.” I look at my hand, and I’m still gripping the doorknob. I can’t move from this spot.

  “You’ve been saying that for over two months. I feel like I’m getting the runaround, and I don’t appreciate it. May fifteenth is this Frida
y.”

  I want to hang up. I never want to hear his voice again, never answer another break-up email. “I—I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” I say, trying my hardest to control the shaking in my voice.

  “You’re so close. Steve went down to Texas to visit this weekend. He’s loving football again. But the kid got drunk and blabbed to everyone who’d listen about his girlfriend and how he’s so in love with her and couldn’t leave her.”

  Hearing that provides me with a fleeting smile. I wish I could tell Huxley. “I’ll give you a refund.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  I pace around the room, hop in place, but I can’t get calm. There’s no protocol for when your true identity gets discovered.

  “I think he’s in love with her.”

  “You and I both know that’s a boatload of crap. It’s not love, never is,” Mr. Towne says. “You agreed to do this, Rebecca.”

  My voice becomes more erratic. “Why do you want to break them up? Why can’t you just leave them alone?”

  “Are you rooting for the lovebirds now?” He lets out a hearty chortle that pierces my eardrum. “Let me provide you with better incentive. If Steve chooses Vermilion on Friday, then I will make sure that every student and parent and Burger King employee in your town knows what you’ve been up to, Miss Break-Up Artist. I don’t think high-school life will be so much fun after that.”

  Before I can say anything, he hangs up. When I *69 him, his number comes up as unlisted. I go upstairs, walk into my bedroom without turning on the lights and crawl into bed. I pull the covers up over my head.

  I march through Monday perpetually on edge. Each second of the day is spent mentally preparing myself. Ms. Hardwick drops her dry-erase marker, and I nearly shoot into the ceiling. She asks me if I’m okay.

  “I’m fine.”

  Except for my life teetering on the verge of utter ruin.