- Home
- Lauren Strasnick
16 Ways to Break a Heart
16 Ways to Break a Heart Read online
DEDICATION
FOR NICA
EPIGRAPH
“Because misery, and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart—you have broken it—and in breaking it, you have broken mine.”
—Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
CONTENTS
Dedication
Epigraph
1. Los Angeles, May 3, 2017, Wednesday, 3:45 p.m.
2. Los Angeles, May 4, 2017, Thursday, 11:35 a.m.
3. Los Angeles, May 5, 2017, Friday, 7:14 p.m.
4. Los Angeles, May 6, 2017, Saturday, 6:45 p.m.
5. Los Angeles, May 7, 2017, Sunday, 7:06 p.m.
6. Los Angeles, May 8, 2017, Monday, 6:49 p.m.
7. Dan, 8:57 a.m.
8. Los Angeles, May 10, 2017, Wednesday, 10:35 p.m.
9. Los Angeles, May 11, 2017, Thursday, 7:15 p.m.
10. The Desert, May 12, 2017, Friday, 3:25 p.m.
11. Los Angeles, May 13, 2017, Saturday, 10:40 a.m.
12. Dan, 1:18 p.m.
13. Los Angeles, May 15, 2017, Monday, 8:46 p.m.
14. DTLA, May 16, 2017, Tuesday, 8:46 p.m.
15. Los Angeles, May 17, 2017, Wednesday, 2:12 p.m.
16. Dan, 4:15 p.m.
Acknowledgments
Back Ad
About the Author
Books by Lauren Strasnick
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
LOS ANGELES, MAY 3, 2017, WEDNESDAY, 3:45 P.M.
Dear Dan,
Greetings from the graveyard of ex-girlfriends!
I’m at the coffee shop at Dayview, writing you from that tiny table at the back of the café, the one you hate, the wicker one that wobbles? The place is completely dead. I could’ve easily sat outside under a pink bougainvillea vine or snagged a window seat looking out onto the quad—instead I’m spilling warm puddles of café au lait all over my best stationery because this shitty little table reminds me of the first time we met. You slammed into me, remember? Knocking me into the creamer and condiment setup. The ultimate meet-cute! Something jazzy and bright pumped out of a stereo speaker, the kind of music that always makes me feel as if I’m sexy and French: a plump-lipped ingenue buying peonies at an open-air market, gnawing on a baguette while smoking Gauloises and reading Proust. You wore your best beret. Okay, not really. You spoiled the fantasy with all your plaid and denim. I liked you anyways. You seemed like the type who’d get misty-eyed watching inspirational sports movies. The kind of guy who loves his mother. Who takes pride in his bear hugs and back rubs, natch.
“Crap!” You’d whacked me upwards and sideways—cream and sugar splattering all over my school uniform. “I’m so sorry,” you said as I gracelessly flicked globs of milk from my kilt. “Let me make it up to you? Buy you something nice?”
“A pony?”
You laughed and bought me a coffee instead. I never let anyone buy me anything but our eyes locked and the angels sang and I instantly knew I could love you. Alexa claims she felt something similar once with a guy she met at the food court at the Glendale Galleria. She’s wrong. What passed between us that day was a revelation—a revolution? With one lingering look I felt our minds merge and our bodies mash and I swear to God, Dan, I saw prom dresses and promise rings; I watched our twin futures unfurl like a giant architectural blueprint.
We were an inevitability, you and me.
Remember what happened next?
We moved to the tiny table and talked about Dayview. You were an after-school employee; a twice-a-week kind of guy who worked with the kids with the more severe developmental issues.
“What exactly do you do with them?” I asked.
“Mostly just help with the physical stuff: swim club, relay, basketball. Some of the students are pretty strong and hard to manage. I guess I’m like a teacher’s aide.”
“I do something similar,” I said, even though it wasn’t very similar at all. I’d been volunteering in a parent-funded art therapy program at Eagle Hill, Dayview’s sister school, since my freshman year. Both programs shared a campus. And a cafeteria. And a student-run coffee shop. “I do art with the kids. They’re pretty high functioning though, different from your group. They just have, like, socialization delays.”
“So you draw with them?”
“Sometimes, yeah. We sculpt too. And paint.”
“That’s really great that you volunteer your time like that.”
“It’s actually pretty selfish,” I insisted. “I like feeling needed.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You really should,” I said with a shrug. “It’s true.”
We talked about other stuff too—school, kittens, grunge rock (“Pearl Jam’s my jam—let’s start a nineties tribute band!”), ghosts, colonialism, the REAL meaning of masculinity, and—
“Broken any laws?” I asked.
“Nay. Wait! I voted in the last election.”
“Ha. Ever broken curfew?”
“Never.”
“Hearts?”
“No way. YOU’RE the heartbreaker,” you said to me, shaking your head with a sidelong look. “It’s written all over your face.”
“Are you flattering me?” I asked, leaning back, daintily sipping the mocha latte you’d bought me. “Because I’m not. I’m always the one that gets broken.”
“You’re too beautiful to break.”
“Are you for real?” I asked, beaming back, dipping my pinkie into your cappuccino and sucking the foam off my fingertip.
It was the boldest, most flirtatious thing I’d ever done, and you loved it. Your jaw unhinged and your eyes got big—I felt high. Daring and powerful and, honestly, a little incandescent. But then, with that priggish grin of yours that I’d come to know so well, you said, “What kind of girl are you?”
And shit, Dan, what kind of question was that? You were smiling like I was in on the joke, so I smiled back, but I should have seen the moment for what it was, should’ve seen you waving that bright-red flag. I mean, I’d dared to be daring. A little cheeky and coy, and you’d flattened my fizz with your judgment. Of course, I hid my embarrassment for fear of killing the fragile, fledgling spark we’d built. I liked you so much that the thought of losing you, even that early on, felt unbearable. I loved your voice and your hands and your inflections and the way your mouth moved into a round little pout when you said “ooh” sounds. I could envision us kissing and touching and KISSING and TOUCHING, and I felt this immediate and mystifying intimacy with you that, holy hell, completely undid me. What was that? Kismet? Magic? Or just your run-of-the-mill dopamine-and-adrenaline cocktail?
The walk to Eagle Hill. THE WALK.
Our fingers brushed, and a carbonated current snaked through my body, rushing up my arms and across my chest before slithering back down to my belly button. You were babbling nervously about Hemingway or Steinbeck—something you were reading/loathing for lit. I wanted to touch you again, to re-create the sensation I’d felt seconds earlier, but we were stopped now, idling in front of the art bungalow, staring at the concrete, not each other.
“Thanks?” I said, chewing my cheeks and twirling my hair. I felt both high and helpless; certain we were soul mates yet scared I’d never see you again.
“For what?” you asked. “For wrecking your uniform?”
I nodded. We watched each other for a long beat.
“You got a phone in that bag?”
“I do.” Gleefully, I pulled out my cell, punched in your number, then hit send—kicking the ball back to your court.
“So I’ll see you around?”
We had a pretty promising start, didn’t we, D? Who would’ve thunk it could’ve ended like this?
Explosively, devastatingly, calamitously.
Yours truly,
Natalie
DAN, 6:06 A.M.
I’m a lot of things—a sometimes-liar, an around-the-clock coward, a maybe-cheat. And on really off days like right now, I can be totally miserable. But one thing I’m not is a misogynistic prick. I loved that moment at Dayview—her pink fingertip in my coffee, the mischievous glint in her eye—and I hate that she just shit all over it with her warped, dark voodoo, twisting one of the best moments of our relationship into something sinister and black.
But that’s what she does. That’s her special brand of magic. Taking beautiful things and crushing them.
Herself included.
I crumple up the letter then glance down at the other five that came with it. They’re numbered, stacked neatly and bound together with a single satin ribbon. Dramatic, huh? An unexpected morning treat left on my bed like a gift from the fucking fairy of doom. How the hell did she get into my room anyway? Teleportation? Burglary kit? I look left at my busted window, the one that’s been wrecked since last spring when she tried breaking in after one of our more explosive fights. It’s likely she slipped the package through the permanently cracked space between sill and screen. Clever, Nat. Très creepy.
I grab the notes then follow the soft sounds of percolating coffee to the kitchen. Jessa, my sister, is already up and clanking around in the upstairs bathroom. My dad’s gone. Out the door at five every morning, to the gym downtown before work.
I drop a slice of rye bread into the toaster then quickly toss the letters into the oven.
Natalie and her tricks.
She knows today is huge for me. Dayview commencement, the movie’s climax. All year I’ve been following Ryan Espinosa around with my camera, filming his successes and setbacks, documenting every high, every low, every moment with his language and behavioral therapists. Today at five p.m., with twelve other classmates who, at twenty-two, have aged out of the system, he’ll don a cap and collect a diploma and eat cake and celebrate. And his mother will cry. And I’ll be there digitizing every teardrop.
The toaster dings.
I was a shit boyfriend, true. I tried to please, placate, impress—always falling short. But how do you satisfy someone like Natalie? She’s up but down. Hot but cold. Needy and vulnerable yet walled-off and secretive. She’s not a girl, she’s a riddle. A sexy, scary, manic, messy, inscrutable math problem that I’m done trying to solve.
I crack the oven door; eye her letters with mistrust and suspicion. Do I do it? Do I lift the lid on Pandora’s box and read all six of her notes?
I could do without the ridicule, the guilt, the blame and shame for sure, but it’s near impossible to pass on an easy opportunity to get her side of the story. Inquiring minds wanna know: Has she found me out? Does she know the real, ugly, untidy truth of it?
I don’t even know what to hope for.
DECEMBER 2, 2015, WEDNESDAY, 6:43 P.M., TEXT
Dan: I can’t stop thinking about French Algeria and Eddie Vedder.
Natalie: Liar. Be bold and tell me what’s really on your mind.
Dan: The mask of masculinity.
Dan: Okay, YOU.
Natalie: A++. Now ask me out for real.
MAY 19, 2017, FRIDAY, 7:16 A.M., TEXT
From: Ruby Lefèvre
To: Dan Jacobson
We need to talk. ASAP.
JUNE 2, 2016, THURSDAY, 11:42 P.M., CHAT
Arielle_Schulman: You’re cute. ;)
Arielle_Schulman: JK, you’re hideous.
Arielle_Schulman: Hello . . . ? Dan?
DanWithABattlePlan has signed off.
2
LOS ANGELES, MAY 4, 2017, THURSDAY, 11:35 A.M.
Dear Dan,
Three hints: I’m cold, I’m dizzy, I’m spinning in circles!
Any guesses? Are you loving this roundabout, rickety trip down memory lane?
I’ll clue you in: I’m at the playground by the reservoir, setting the scene for a rehashing of date two (though actually, if I’m being technical, this is the location of date one, since Dayview wasn’t really a date, was it?).
Can you picture it? The swings, the slides, the bumpy asphalt and trampled grass? Today this place is vibrant—bright with purple wisteria and blooming jasmine. But the night we were here it was cold and black. We’d spent that day roaming Silver Lake—sipping cocoa, spilling secrets, selling each other the supersexy versions of our very best selves. I was the adorkable art lover who’d just had a massive collage piece in a teen show at the Getty. You were the documentarian slash socially aware overachiever. We were destined to love each other, don’t you think? The star and the saint? The good boy and the artsy kook?
“So, wait.” I needed to know everything about you—your aspirations, your fantasies, your dirty secrets and hard-line values. I settled for asking, “How’d you end up working at—”
“My mom was a nurse at Dayview,” you finished for me. “She had a thing for kids with, like, developmental delays. She’s dead now.”
“Oh.”
You looked gutted suddenly.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, grabbing your hand and squeezing it. “How’d she die?” Pushy, I know, but we were onto something, you and me: a legit connection. Starter love. Why waste time with trite platitudes about death?
“Cancer.”
“You okay?”
You shrugged sheepishly. “Do I look okay?”
I inspected you; equal parts boy and man—tall and broad with the face of a marble god. “You’re perfect.”
Your mouth split into a wide, goofy grin and I suddenly had a new life goal: to make you smile like that every day forever. “So . . . ,” you said. “You make collages?”
I clutched my coat to my chest. It was four p.m. and nearly dark; the city was aglow with tiny lights and reflective Christmas decorations. “Right.”
“With what? Like, magazine cutouts?”
“Sure, sometimes.” The street curved into a small residential pocket. My feet—which I’d shoved into my cutest, smallest flats that morning—were killing me. “Mostly I do portraits. Girls’ faces, made with, like, other girls’ faces.”
“My brain just exploded.”
I smiled. “It’s a lot of Xeroxing onto colored construction paper. Can we stop?”
“Talking about collage art?”
“No, I mean, can we stop walking?” I offered no excuses, convinced you’d dismiss me as ridiculous if I even hinted at my love for impractical footwear.
“Yeah, sure.” You pointed at a park—THE park; OUR park—just a few yards off. “Know any good games?”
“Hide-and-seek? Or, oh wait—you mean, like, mind games?”
“Here, c’mere,” you said, pulling me toward a tot-size, metal merry-go-round. “Want a ride?”
Hells yeah I did. I grabbed the handlebars and waited to be spun into oblivion. You delivered: turning me around and around. I leaned back, letting my hair go wild while the stars swirled above me.
“Well?” you said, letting the carousel twist on its own for a bit before it wobbled and slowed to a stop. “Had enough?”
“Never.”
You held my gaze for what felt like forever.
And then you kissed me.
I don’t even know how it happened. I was dazed and exultant from the ride still. Your lips were hot and soft and your hands were everywhere—my face, my hips, tangled up in my hair. “I like you so much,” you whispered into the shoulder of my jacket.
I’d
never felt happiness like that before.
“Me too,” I said, hooking my chin around your neck. Our bodies clicked into place like plastic dolls built to fit.
It all seemed so fated and right that night, didn’t it? Like the gods of the Silver Lake Recreation Center had given us the green light to love each other? Except that now it’s been eighteen months, and I’ve got hindsight on my side. Turns out? This park is just a park. It’s sunny and overrun with germy toddlers and frazzled parents. There’s no crescent moon now. No sweet kisses or crisp night air. No swirl of stars and possibility.
I’m watching these kids play freeze tag. This tiny guy is chasing down a miniature blond spitfire—sixish with pigtails. She’s screaming gleefully and so is he—they’re both giddy and jumpy and breathless. That’s what it’s like, isn’t it? The falling-for-someone part? The thrill and anticipation of the chase? Of BEING chased? It’s fast and disorienting and insanely fun.
But what happens when you finally catch the girl, huh, Dan? When she’s real and right there and she’s loving you back?
She’s disappointing, isn’t she? Too vulnerable and fragile and flawed? So you’re like, “Sayonara, girl!” but this is freeze tag, remember? You may have moved on, but Pigtails, she hasn’t—she’s stuck still, frozen in place; killing herself trying to sort out what she did wrong to make you stop loving her.
Fun sport, huh?
Not for me, Dan. Consider this my official resignation.
I’m dropping out of the game.
Nat
DAN, 6:17 A.M.
I remember that kiss a little differently.
I remember the lead-up. The time that lapsed between Dayview and the rec center; the anticipation, the nerves, the obsessing and relentless fantasizing. I mean, that kiss—it didn’t just happen. I texted, I Google-stalked, I sent cat pictures that I captioned with pithy, clever one-liners. I wanted her, she’s right about that, and if you want to get technical, then yeah, sure, you could call it chasing.
But here’s where Nat gets it wrong: I never caught up. Not that night, not later in our relationship, not even during our breakup—because that girl never stops moving. She’s impossible to catch. A wild, shifty thing who—let’s be clear here—isn’t the little toy train she makes herself out to be. She’s the Concorde, flying nonstop at supersonic speeds. That’s part of what drew me in initially, that unstoppable energy and verve. I wanted to fly alongside her, so yeah, I chased her. But you gotta know when to quit, right? Maybe it’s weak. Maybe I’m weak. But I just got tired of running.
16 Ways to Break a Heart
Nothing Like You
Her and Me and You