How To Get Your Heart Broken

by Rose Fall

  HOW TO GET YOUR HEART BROKEN

  By

  Rose Fall

  Copyright © 2016 Rose Fall

  Print Edition:

  ISBN-13:978-1523457083

  ISBN-10:1523457082

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Cover design © Hilda at Dalliance Designs

  In memory of Ms. Winkler, for sending us postcards from Ireland, for taking us to poetry readings, and for reading my horrendous first attempt at novel writing. I really hope this book doesn’t suck as much as that one did.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Every Good Story Starts With a Broken Heart

  Boys Suck, Girls Suck

  May the Odds Be Ever in Your Favor

  Some People Just Don’t Mesh

  Some things, We Don’t Talk About

  Sometimes the Understudy Steals the Show

  Ok, So Maybe I Think You’re Kinda Hot

  Reindeer Mugs Turn Me On

  Most Secrets Come Out In the Worst Ways

  Your Lips Are Moving But I Don’t Hear Shit

  It’s Always the Quiet Ones

  I Don’t Want to Be Your Sugar, Sugar

  Plot Twist Ahead

  I’m Sad When You’re Sad

  Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

  The Truth Hurts

  We’re Like, Really Good at Playing Pretend

  Nothing Hurts Forever

  Kiss Me Kill Me

  How to Ruin Your Own Life

  Some People are So Good at Lying to Themselves

  The Truth Always Comes Out Eventually

  Some Realities are Better than Other Realities

  Ef-fort

  It’s Tearing Up My Heart…

  The Truth About Lies

  Confession

  Things We Can’t Take Back

  Memories Will Haunt You

  The Bright Side of Rock Bottom

  Climax

  Everything You Think You Know

  How to Get Your Heart Broken

  Fearless

  Epilogue: Begin Again

  Every Good Story Starts With a Broken Heart

  Ryan Steidman is the sort of guy everybody loves. He's charming, smart, confident, and absolutely gorgeous. He's also mine. I mean, was. We were together for two years. I'd known and loved him for half of my life. My mother loved him more than she loved me. You think you know a guy you've spent half of your life with, but life has a funny way of proving you wrong. Allow me to explain.

  It was the night of our high school graduation. This was the first time in months that my parents were within 50 feet of each other without the presence of a mediator. I was smart enough to know it wouldn’t last, and I was dying to ditch my little graduation party before another epic brawl began.

  I'd waited nineteen years for that day. My declaration of independence had been delivered in the form of a high school diploma and I was finally free of my family. It was the best day of my life. What made it better was that I wouldn’t be spending another torturous summer with my mother, suffering through all of her ill-fated attempts at bonding as I desperately tried to maintain my sanity. No, I was determined to make more of this summer which was why I was going to be spending it at the beach with Ryan, and my two best friends, Rachel and Ashton.

  We had every intention of making this the best summer of our lives, as we were all too aware of the responsibilities accompanying our impending adulthood. We were all going to different schools next year, taking on very different paths and, for me, this summer bought on as much fear as it did excitement. “Always the pessimist,” Ryan would have said. So, even though I was haunted by the reality of our inevitable separation, I focused on trying to make the best of the time we had. I still had a glorious 75 days of summer to spend with the people that meant the most to me.

  “…Personally, I think that is why a lot of people don’t respect theater majors. But it’s just a misconception that there no jobs in the field-”

  “Did you hear that?” I asked with wide eyes.

  Mr. McKay stared back at me in confusion.

  “I think my mother’s calling me. I’ve gotta run. Good talking to you.” I smiled tightly. I barely bothered to get the lie out of my mouth before rushing away.

  Our neighbor Mr. McKay had always insisted that Drama really was the most useful college major no matter what field anyone wanted to go into. This wasn’t the first time he’d expressed his unpopular views on the subject, but I suppose he suspected time was running out to convince me.

  I knew he’d try to corner me again if given the opportunity, so I quickly headed upstairs to look for Ryan, politely nodding at all the strangers on the way. My mother had insisted on throwing this party for me and thank goodness she'd prepared me for all the disappointment I would have to face at her hands from an early age. It was no surprise that half the party guests were people I’d never seen before in my life. Some I knew but hated.

  But I knew this party wasn’t really about me. It was my mother’s opportunity to show off the renovations she’d made to the house, to promote this image she had of living a glamorous life. The truth was we weren’t rich. We used to be, but that was mostly because of my dad. After my parent’s divorce, my mother had managed to walk away with almost half of what he owned. But she spent too long living above her means. We’d had to move to a house that was almost half the size of our old one two years ago and since then she’d been trying hard to get this one to the same standard. Mother made a decent amount as a real estate agent, but not enough to support the lavish lifestyle she clung onto. I knew this was always on her mind; it fed the insecurity that inspired extravagant parties like this.

  I found it difficult to empathize with her concern. When I was younger, I used to wish that we could be poor. As a corporate lawyer, my dad made a great deal of money. We were never lacking in material things. But, he seemed to think that as long as we had all the things we needed we didn’t need him. So, I wanted to be poor.

  I didn’t hope for poverty anymore. I had long since given up hope of mending my relationship with either of my parents. But young Eli had left an impression, and even today I had a strange aversion to wealth and extravagance. So, I wanted nothing to do with this party.

  It sort of seemed appropriate that Rachel and Ashton weren’t here. I learned too late my mother hadn't even invited them. She wasn’t fond of Rachel ‒which she’d made clear numerous times without my asking‒ and apparently she hadn’t realized Ashton and I were still friends.

  Of course they still could have come but no, they didn’t really want to see my parents. In truth Ash preferred to stay at home curled up with a book and Rachel wanted to go to a “real party.” Ryan was the only one willing to face my mother’s wrath for me. Not that he had to worry.

  It was time for us to ditch the cocktail party, and make our way to Rachel’s idea of a celebration. Besides, from the way I saw my mother glaring at my father from across the living room‒he was currently flirting with Mr. Lancaster’s new wife‒ I predicted it would only be a few more minutes before they exhausted their attempts at civility. It was just enough time for Ryan and me to make a run for it. By the time they started trying to murder each other, we would be gone.

  "Lauren!" I yelled as I spotted her upstairs, she turned towards me, waving eagerly.

  Normally she'd be the bratty little sister, but since she'd been living with dad and hadn’t seen me in months, the snide comments I’d gotten accustomed to when she hit the do
uble digits were absent for the day.

  "Have you seen Ryan?" I asked, smiling as she walked towards me and grabbed my hand.

  "I saw him go into your room," she responded.

  “Thanks," I said, still shocked that I hadn’t gotten a smart-ass comment as a reply.

  “Sure," she said, quickly patting my head. She was only twelve and already she was as tall as me. Not that I’m 5’11 or anything. Not 5’11. That’s as close as anyone will ever get to knowing my true height.

  Lauren’s and my height remained the only thing we had in common. With her straight, light brown hair and grey-blue eyes she was the spitting image of my mother, a fact that meant people always assumed one of us was adopted when they learned we were sisters. Her pale skin left no evidence of our Hispanic heritage while I, being my father’s daughter, possessed the sun-kissed skin which left some of my more ignorant classmates believing I lived in a tanning bed year round. I had the same wavy and unmanageable hair (except on days like today when it’d been scared straight by an extensive and intricate process of blow drying and straightening), and, when left unsupervised I had the misfortune of possessing the same thick, dark eyebrows as my father.

  I made a beeline for my room; taking off the six-inch devices of torture my mother had subjected me to wearing. Her life was consumed by all things appearance related. At times I wondered if this was why she’d married my father. “He looks just like Antonio Banderas!” her country club friends would say in a tone which made me certain that if he were black, they would think he looked just like Denzel Washington.

  I flung my room door open to find Ryan, my Ryan under the covers of my bed...with Nikki. Nikki Sulivan. She fit into the category of people at the party that I hated. Even before that incident. What really surprised me was Ryan’s audacity. That he simply couldn’t have waited until he wasn’t in my house, or to have done it in the bathroom so as to spare me the inconvenience of having to burn my entire bed.

  That scene, now burned into my head, was impossible to accept. But sadly, it was the sort of thing I expected. If there had been signs that Ryan was cheating on me before this point, I certainly hadn’t seen them. But somehow it seemed natural that one of the greatest days of my life would be ruined by the only boy I’ve ever loved. It was just the way things went for me. Call me cynical, or damaged, or maybe psychic, but the scene before me did not surprise me for a

  second. I’m not saying it didn’t make me furious though.

  “Get out," I said quietly. My voice shook. I hoped he didn’t think it was because I was going to cry.

  Nikki gladly took my command as her cue to leave, but Ryan didn’t seem to get the hint.

  "Elle I'm so sorry…"

  Was this one request too much to ask for? My blood boiled in anticipation of his pathetic apology.

  I tightened my grip around one of the heels I was holding and aimed for Ryan’s head, my rage intensifying when I missed.

  "I don’t want to hear anything you have to say! Get out!"

  He mumbled something about me calming down before trying to grab his clothes. That was probably what really set me off. He wanted me to calm down.

  The way I reacted after this made complete sense to me. Still, I was shocked at my own anger. It seemed I’d tried to burden him with all of the hurt he had caused me, transfer it on so

  my heart wasn’t plagued with the permanent damage his betrayal had caused.

  Ryan spent a very long night in the ER after that confrontation. Unfortunately, I realized too late no physical pain I could cause him would ever add up to the permanent scars he’d left me. The worst part was none of it changed the way I felt about him, not like I thought it would. Either way, I’d promised Rachel I would stop thinking about it. Not that she could monitor my thoughts.

  My mind slowly reentered the present as I heard her burst through the brilliantly blue front door of the beach house.

  I’d been obsessively replaying that night the whole way to the beach house, and I was breaking my promise that I’d leaving him at the door.

  "Elle!” She yelled, "I have something that will make you stop thinking about him!"

  "I wasn't thinking about him," I said defensively. She sent me her trademark, don’t-bullshit-me-look.

  “Just like how you weren’t thinking about him when you had a quarter-life crisis and dyed your hair that unnatural shade of red?”

  As if there was a shade of red that would have looked “natural” on me, I thought. I glanced down at my hair, the beet red color that had been the final product of hours locked in my bathroom with a do-it-yourself hair dyeing kit was a drastic change from my natural hair color, but it had actually started to grow on me. Besides, red matched my mood.

  "Come here! You too, Ashton!” She yelled excitedly, ushering me away from the kitchen window. I snorted at the sound of Ash’s dramatic groan.

  "Follow me!" Rachel chirped in an annoyingly chipper voice.

  Ashton and I exchanged a look of dread as she led us to the living room. I was utterly disappointed that whatever was supposed to be making me feel better wasn’t chocolate.

  Rachel ignored our complaints. She was too busy gazing through the glass doors, past which some guy, presumably our neighbor, stood on the porch next door. He was shirtless, squinting into the sun as it glinted off his toned abs in a way that suggested he’d spent at least half his life in a gym. Ryan had spent most of his life in a gym. I hated our neighbor already.

  He turned his head to nod in our direction, and then winked as if he’d mistaken my unimpressed gaze for interest before heading back inside. Rachel let the curtains fall, indicating the much anticipated end of an uneventful show, and turned towards us. I raised an eyebrow, wondering what our cocky neighbor, otherwise known as Rachel’s next conquest, had to do with me. Ash shook her head, probably noticing the way Rachel had looked at him.

  “Wouldn’t you like to get dessert served on that platter?” She grinned.

  ‘Not even if it were tiramisu,’ I thought as Ash deadpanned, “That’s not very hygienic.”

  "We all know he's hot, right?" Rachel asked, ignoring our less than enthusiastic attitudes.

  We waited.

  "Right," she persisted. I stared blankly.

  She smiled liked she’d just invented Viagra. "I know the perfect way to help you get revenge.”

  Boys Suck, Girls Suck

  The beach house showed only the first signs of needing restoration, but it looked like a shack because of the way our tasteless neighbor’s mini-mansion towered over it. Nevertheless, it was rendered beautiful by its modesty. Its light blue color contributed to its peculiarity, as all of the houses behind us and that sole house to the right of us were of more traditional styles and colors. This and the fact that the house only stood a few yards from the shore helped further this feeling I always had, that we were the sole inhabitants of an island whose main and only attraction was a small blue house characterized by its wind chimes and beaded curtains. Inside, an almost tangible tension was evident between the personal and the fashionable.

  Ash’s mom had begun to renovate the place with intentions of selling it after Ashton’s grandfather, the original owner, had died. It was probably his anticipation of this that made him leave the beach house to Ash in his will, though she was barely a teenager when he died. She was unable to retrieve pieces her mother had already sold, but she had kept everything that remained of her grandfather’s in perfect order with almost obsessive precision.

  A three-legged table he’d made in his youth sufficed as our coffee table, though it hardly resembled one. It had always been a site for sore eyes and its old age had only made it more fragile, so that Rachel and I knew to avoid the middle of the living room where it lay like the world’s most pitiful centerpiece. One small gust of air in its direction probably would have caused the whole thing to come crashing down like a house of cards.

  There were many other things of his in the house no one was allowed to touch,
or even look at, but many of them were placed into the second living room‒ which none of us dared enter. It was filled with what I tried kindly to classify as “vintage” furniture; dusty chairs, hideous flower print curtains, a T.V. with antennae, and an out of tune harpsichord. All this along with so many little trinkets from his travels with Ash’s grandmother that it was impractical to call the place a “living” room; it more so resembled the sort of museum where you had to be mindful of every step you took because at every corner stood something very old and very fragile.

  Yet what puzzled me the most about this room was the endless collection of seashells. I was sure the world’s largest collection of seashells rested right under the guest bedroom I occupied and I wondered why, when you could just go outside and press your toes against as many seashells as your heart desired they remained of such high value that they were collected and dusted and dated with the day they had been found like each one was a nugget of gold.

  Nevertheless, there was an undeniable charm linked to the house, and though I preferred the modern décor: the sliding double doors on opposite sides of the kitchen, the built in seat by the window that Ash’s mother had added, and the out of place chandelier and glass doors in the living room, even I had to admit these were not the things that brought an air of comfort and unexplainable nostalgia to all who entered. The place seemed like it had been built for quiet reflection and soul searching. Like Ashton and I, it was in for a rude awakening, because that was nothing near what Rachel had in mind.

  “No. No. Absolutely not!”

  I blinked at Ash’s words. A part of me agreed with them. But I was just as confused as our little blue shack, so another part of me was secretly rolling my eyes at her. That part of me was intrigued by Rachel’s idea. Revenge sounded nice, justified. And I didn’t care if this guy hadn’t done anything to me; I wanted the whole male species to suffer. I was convinced that none of them were innocent.