16 Ways to Break a Heart Read online

  She kissed my neck and after that my cheeks and lips. All the places Ruby had kissed earlier. “Nat . . .” My stomach churned with shame.

  “Put your arms around me,” she commanded softly. “Please, Dan? Can we please just pretend this morning never happened?”

  I slid my arms around her waist and squeezed hard. “Okay,” I said, wondering if maybe I’d been granted some sort of reprieve. We’d fought, I’d been confused, I’d done something stupid. But maybe we could bounce back from this one tiny indiscretion?

  “Dan, you’re shaking.”

  “I think I’m hungover.”

  “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  “Say it again.”

  “I love you.”

  “One more time.”

  “I love you, Nat.”

  MARCH 2, 2017, THURSDAY, 7:43 P.M., TEXT

  Ari: Sometimes when Whitman disappoints me I wonder about you. If you and I could love each other if we didn’t already love other people. I fantasize about you sometimes. Do you ever fantasize about me?

  Dan: Constantly.

  Dan: Please wear something obscene to school tomorrow.

  Ari: X.

  14

  DTLA, MAY 16, 2017, TUESDAY, 8:46 P.M.

  Dan,

  Seven weeks ago, sixteen months into our relationship, you and I went to our first and only fairy-tale ball together. The flowers, the formal wear, the pink stretch limos! Those Valley kids really know how to party it up in—what? Not style exactly—stripper stilettos, maybe? Carnation corsages?

  In lieu of driving all the way over the hill to re-create the experience, I’m relaxing right now in the lobby of the haunted, historic Biltmore Hotel downtown; curled up on an overstuffed love seat, sipping a virgin piña colada on a school night.

  What follows is a dramatic reenactment. I’ll be playing the role of VICTIM.

  FADE IN:

  INT. BURBANK MARRIOTT—BANQUET HALL—NIGHT

  Senior prom in the San Fernando Valley. Strobe lights, pop music, corporate hotel décor. Girls in shiny dresses prance in packs on a vinyl dance floor. Sweaty boys in tuxes swill whiskey from gleaming flasks.

  BEN WHITMAN, tall and cocksure, slaps hands with DAN JACOBSON, an insecure little two-timing piece of shit. Whitman’s girlfriend, ARIELLE SCHULMAN—wicked, wanton, epically slutty—gives Dan a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

  VICTIM, A.K.A. ME, keels over and dies.

  I wanted to murder you, Dan. A fucking kiss? The audacity! The flagrant flirting! I shot Schulman the lousiest look I could muster and she cowered and shrunk and I instantly knew you two were screwing. I pulled you aside and said, “You’re a liar.”

  And you went red but stayed stoic. “Don’t do this, Natalie. Don’t wreck tonight.”

  But it was already wrecked, Dan. I’d seen the way she looked at you and the way you avoided her looks. “Just tell me,” I said.

  “Tell you what?”

  “That you’re fucking her.”

  “I hate when you talk like that.”

  So I screamed FUCK in your face and took off, my veins throbbing with heat. And you chased after me, insisting that there was nothing going on with you two. But I wanted a confession so I tried a softer tactic: “I just need you to be honest with me,” I said, reaching for your clammy hand. “I can handle the cheating; I just can’t handle you lying about it.”

  And you were like, “I’m not lying,” but you were, Dan! You were! And then Ruby and this other chick appeared out of nowhere. Ruby looked sad and her friend looked MAD and neither one of them stopped to say hi or even glance our way but I knew that they’d seen us because I KNOW SHIT and then that’s when it hit me: maybe you hadn’t been lying about Arielle after all. Maybe I’d been worried about the wrong girl all along.

  “Ruby looks really pretty tonight,” I said, testing you. She and her friend had just disappeared into the bathroom.

  “Does she?” You glanced around, shrugging coolly. “I haven’t seen her yet.”

  Really, Dan? Hadn’t you noticed the pink glossy lips and the flat-ironed hair? Her sexy little polyblend prom dress? After all, this was the girl you’d known since you were thirteen. The one who’d vacationed once with your family in Mammoth. The one you left me for in Joshua Tree. How had you missed her super conspicuous drive-by?

  “I’m leaving,” I said, alarm bells blaring in my brain.

  “Are you kidding me? Natalie, it’s PROM.”

  “So what?” I said, ripping off my corsage.

  “Hey!” You caught my arm and pulled me close. “Don’t do this.”

  “Be honest with me.”

  “I AM being honest with you.”

  “Bullshit,” I said, shaking loose and walking away.

  DAN, 2:25 P.M.

  The girl Nat’s talking about, the one with Ruby that night in the Marriott lobby? That was Sue Jablonski, Ruby’s scariest friend.

  Sue’s always been pretty stuck up and stern, but right around the time that Ruby and I hooked up Sue started ignoring me outright. Shooting me death looks at school; hugging Ruby close whenever I passed by. Mutual friends wanted to know what I’d done to piss Jablonski off—had I stolen her lunch money? Her pencil case? And why hadn’t Ruby and I been hanging out lately? What had happened to our devout commitment to each other? To our rock-solid friendship?

  Sex happened, of course. Or something close to it.

  It had wormed its way into the grooves of our relationship and tainted everything. I can only guess at what Ruby must have said to Sue about our encounter. That I’d been careless, maybe. Or worse, that I’d been heartless. And she wouldn’t be wrong, would she?

  “Just cut the girl loose, Dan.”

  Jessa was at the kitchen counter hunched over a bowl of leftover carbonara, offering up unsolicited advice about my relationship. “Seriously, I don’t understand why you and Natalie just don’t break up.”

  “I think we love each other.”

  “You think?”

  I wasn’t sure. Was this what love was? A relationship rife with resentment and infidelity? I winced with guilt, flashing back to my afternoon with Ruby. “I sort of did something.”

  “You and Lefèvre got it on.”

  “No!”

  “No?”

  “Sort of?”

  “Dan!”

  “I mean, we didn’t sleep together, but—wait, how do you know that?”

  “Because I have eyes, loser! Because you’ve been stringing that girl along for-fucking-ever.”

  I swallowed a golf ball. “Is that true?”

  “Dan.”

  The reality of what I’d done was suddenly hitting me like an avalanche. “Nat knows. I swear she knows. I mean, maybe not the specifics exactly? But she’s been asking me a ton about this one girl, and I just think, like, psychically she somehow senses that I’ve messed around and—”

  “Oh God, stop,” Jessa said, her arms crisscrossed over her head protectively. “Just stop whining and be a grown-up. Do you want to be with her?”

  “Who?”

  She whacked my head hard. “Your girlfriend, dumbass!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, what about Ruby?”

  I shrugged helplessly. I wasn’t sure about her either. “I have to tell Nat. I feel so bad.”

  “Yeah, you feel bad but that’s your problem. Do you really wanna go and make Natalie feel worse?” She shoveled a spoonful of peas into her mouth.

  “I thought you said we should break up.”

  “You should. But telling her that you screwed your best friend isn’t going to make things any better.”

  “We didn’t screw.”

  Jessa looked at me like I’d just smashed the contents of her makeup drawer. “Do you hear yourself?”

  “Barely?”

  “It doesn’t matter if you actually had sex,” she said, pushing the last of her cold carbonara aside. “Why’d you do it anyways? Like, do you actually have f
eelings for Ruby?”

  “No,” I said, quickly, reflexively, and then, “I mean, I don’t know.” I tried looking inward to see if my heart or gut or spleen had any insight. “I think I did it to feel better about myself.”

  “Oh God.” Her lips settled into a sober, straight line. “You’re horrible.”

  I flinched, stung. “No, I’m not.”

  She watched me now, her eyes tiny; her head wagging slowly in stark disbelief. “No, you are, really. Go look up d-bag in the dictionary, Dan. Your picture’s right there, wedged between two shirtless photos of Bieber.”

  “Jess.”

  “You’re the reason I don’t date.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true.”

  I laughed uneasily, hoping a little levity might offset my discomfort and Jessa’s rage. No luck. Her icy eyes radiated a steady beam of contempt.

  “You look just like Mom when you’re mad,” I said with a smile, thinking some flattery might smooth things over. And it did. Jessa softened instantly, her shoulders dropping and her eyebrows bouncing up.

  “I hate you.”

  She was grinning now, so I seized my opportunity—pulling her quickly into a tight embrace. “No, you don’t.”

  “I do.”

  “Jess.”

  “Please be a better guy, Dan.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Try harder,” she said, sighing loudly, disentangling herself from our hug. She grabbed her camera off a nearby step stool and held it out to me. “Here, take it. I need you to shoot my ‘What I Ate in a Day’ video.”

  “Didn’t you just eat?”

  “You think I’m gonna post a video of me slurping a massive bowl of cold carbonara on the internet? No, Dan, come on, time to make an acai bowl.”

  “A what?”

  “Can you just film me while I blend shit?”

  I winced, guilty. “I can’t? I still need signatures from three sets of Dayview parents so I can shoot Ryan’s commencement.”

  “It’ll take three seconds.”

  “Jess . . .”

  “Three seconds.” She shook the camera in my face. “Just take it, okay? If you help me, I’ll help you.”

  “You will?”

  “Yeah, they’re not calling you back, right? So we’ll go out together and try some door-to-door salesmanship. You’ll seem much less threatening with a sixteen-year-old angel on your arm.” She reached into the freezer and pulled out an armful of unidentifiable frozen fruits. “So what’s your elevator pitch?”

  I froze, suddenly seized with performance pressure. “Okay, so, here are these kids, right? Working hard to set up a sustainable life postgraduation. Their parents want them to be as independent as possible, but it’s so much bigger than that. It’s about legislation and funding for community programs. It’s about getting retail stores to partner with autism advocacy groups, and—”

  Jessa yawned.

  “I’m boring you?”

  “Oh, to tears.”

  “You got a better suggestion?”

  “Yep.” She tossed a bag of shredded coconut onto the kitchen counter and smiled. “So, like, why are you making this movie? In a sentence. Without using phrases like ‘autism advocacy’ or ‘legislation.’”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  “I mean exactly that: why?”

  “Because Ryan’s story is important. Because he’s facing issues that all kids with autism face.”

  “But why Ryan specifically?”

  I hated when she got like this. Patronizing and challenging. “You know I’m the older one, right?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I don’t know why I picked him. Because his family was amenable to the idea?”

  “Wrong.”

  “Because he’s my favorite kid at Dayview?”

  “Exactly!” Jessa slapped my back enthusiastically. “Now let’s go knock on doors and tell people that a single story is all you need to make big waves of change! Tell them that you want these kids to live in a world that sees them as whole individuals, not just as issues or mascots. You’re trying to move people, right? Like, you want people to empathize with Ryan and his family?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “So that’s all you need to say.” She waved a hand at her camera. “Shoot me.”

  I stared back, speechless. “You’re so much smarter than me it makes me sick.”

  “Hello! Start filming so I can start blending! I’ve already got five thousand subscribers, Dan! I’m building my brand!”

  My cell chimed. I reached for it and read the text preview.

  We need to talk.

  It was from Natalie.

  MARCH 26, 2017, SUNDAY, 10:02 A.M., TEXT

  From: Matt Libby

  To: Dan Jacobson

  Your sister could sell salt to a slug. I’ll send the signed form with Fiona to school tomorrow.

  MARCH 26, 2017, SUNDAY, 2:53 P.M., EMAIL

  From: Liza Wheeler

  To: Dan Jacobson

  Hi, Dan.

  Jen and I talked it over, and we’re on board. See attached. Consent signed and dated.

  Best,

  Liza Wheeler

  MARCH 27, 2017, MONDAY, 6:55 A.M., EMAIL

  From: Laura Villet, cc: Brian Villet

  To: Dan Jacobson

  Here you go, Dan. Your lucky day.

  Laura and Brian

  15

  LOS ANGELES, MAY 17, 2017, WEDNESDAY, 2:12 P.M.

  So, Dan, you’re a smart guy, right?

  I’m sure you’ve gleaned the subtle subtext from these letters: that I know all about your torrid affair with Ruby Ladylove Lefèvre!

  You curious to hear how I found out? How I finally—after much speculation and paranoia—confirmed a growing, itching suspicion?

  I hacked your email of course. Right after prom.

  “Hey, Novio?”

  “Hey, Nat?”

  Remember that afternoon in January, pre-hike-from-hell, when we watched The Exorcist in bed on your laptop?

  “Got any delicious snacks?” I asked. A possessed Linda Blair had just puked pea soup all over a priest, and I was suddenly, inexplicably starving.

  “I’m sure I can scrounge something up,” you said, kissing me then bouncing off the bed. “Want anything else? A crucifix, maybe? The blood of a sacrificial lamb?”

  “Please!” I paused the movie. “But with a side of whipped cream?”

  You laughed and left. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself so I watched the wall for a bit. I sat up and braided my hair. I thought deeply and briefly about demon possession, but after a minute or so I got antsy. “You coming back anytime soon?” I called out.

  “I’m assembling a junk food platter!”

  I can’t really explain why I did what I did next, but when I get antsy, Dan, I just do things. I INNOCENTLY clicked on a desktop file titled “Web Crap,” and just HAPPENED to glance quickly at a list of passwords, namely the one that accessed your email account.

  “I come bearing processed food,” you said moments later, back with a tray full of delicious and horrible treats: cheese crackers, spray cheese, tiny pickles, and frozen mini Mars Bars.

  “You spoil me,” I said, discreetly closing the file, grabbing a chocolate off the tray then tearing into it with my two front teeth.

  Flash forward three months to three hours after prom.

  I was home, hating you, feeling suspicious of you and Ruby, and I’d been sitting on your password for nearly two months. Impressive, yes? My willpower?

  No longer able to resist the alluring call of the World Wide Web of Secrets and Lies, I hurriedly typed your info into the Gmail homepage and within seconds was staring at your fully loaded inbox.

  A quick search, a minute or two of scrolling and clicking, and there it was finally. Proof.

  I’m not going to type up a transcription here of the Ruby exchange because I draw the line at writing letters inside of letters, but let
’s just say that you two had tons of FEELINGS after screwing around and Ruby just could not understand why you’d gone back to your crazy whore of a girlfriend, i.e., me.

  WELL FUCK YOU BOTH VERY MUCH.

  You could’ve cheated with anyone, Dan. A cheerleader, a prostitute, a ceramics-loving elf. Why Ruby? Why the one girl with the power to invalidate our ENTIRE RELATIONSHIP? Was she really that much better than me?

  —N

  DAN, 3:03 P.M.

  Is that it, the big and final reveal? I cheated, Nat knows, and she found me out by hacking my email?

  To be honest, I can’t even blame her for the privacy breach. I did do things with Ruby and if I were her and suspected as much, I might’ve hacked my account too. But that can’t be it, can it? There must be more. I need a conclusion, an epilogue, a denouement. It’s three p.m. and school’s nearly out. Do I check with reception again for more letters? Do I swing past my locker on my way to Dayview for commencement?

  I haven’t seen Nat since our official breakup a little over a month ago. It was sunny and cool that day at the park, like fall on some northern planet. Nat looked unexpectedly sheepish and sweet—barefaced and quiet, wearing paint-splattered ripped jeans.

  “Hey,” I said, greeting her quickly with an awkward kiss. It’d been two weeks since we’d last talked at prom and I still wasn’t sure where we stood. Were we together? Broken up? I’d expected her to reach out like always—to call me crying or to climb through my window—she hadn’t. “You okay, stranger?”

  “I’m okay,” she said, smiling, her eyes bouncing around distractedly. “Should we sit?”

  I sat. Another minute ticked by. Nat picked up a rock, played with it, and put it back down. “I think we need to break up.”

  It was a wallop to the gut. I’d been expecting it, of course. I’d even fantasized about it a bit, but I never really thought it would happen this way, with Nat initiating.

  “What’re you thinking?” she asked, squinting now, one hand blocking a skinny ray of sunshine.

  Was it a trick question? “I think you’re right,” I said, watching her sideways with suspicion.

  “Great.”

  “Really?” I scanned her face for signs of sadness or regret. “You really think it’s great that we’re breaking up?”