16 Ways to Break a Heart Page 12
“I mean, we haven’t spoken in weeks.”
She wasn’t wrong, but the lack of tears and turmoil threw me. “Nat, I’m sorry about—” What? What was I sorry for? For being a disloyal shit? I wanted to tell her that after a year and a half together we could fix this but— “I just wish things had worked out differently with us.” This was true, but it still didn’t seem like enough. I’d always thought we’d go down with a little more fanfare and flair.
She nodded. “Bygones, yeah?”
“Bygones?” Where was that raw, real, emotional girl I’d fallen hard for? The wild one who had me spellbound at “Pearl Jam’s my jam, Dan!” The brazen one with zero filter who lived and died by the heart. She was the one I needed to say good-bye to. “I’ll miss you,” I said, meaning it, but she didn’t say it back.
So I hugged her.
It was the only thing I could think to do.
And she hugged back, but limply. “I have to leave. I told Lex I’d meet her at The Grove at five.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling confused and desperate and reluctant to let go. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“But I’ll see you around?”
“You’ll see me,” she said, starting off.
I felt a blast of regret then blurted, “Wait!” but she didn’t wait. She just kept on walking, never once turning around to look back.
APRIL 8, 2017, SATURDAY, 12:50 P.M., EMAIL
To: Michael Fierro
From: Mae Fierro
Hey,
Something is seriously wrong with our kid. I’m 95% certain that she and Dan broke up, because she’s barely left her room since Wednesday and she’s refusing food, even rolls from Katsu-Ya. Alexa keeps stopping by with flowers and bags of all that cheap crap that they love from the 99 Cent Store. Do I try to get her in to see Ginsberg this week? Or maybe a therapist? Doesn’t your mother have someone she likes on the Westside?
I thought about asking Keri for the name of her shamanic practitioner, but I figured you’d be pissed if I took our child to a witch doctor while you were away in Tokyo.
Can you pick up some of those special bean cakes for Fluff before your flight tomorrow? You know how she is about Japanese snacks.
X, M
16
DAN, 4:15 P.M.
I’m on my knees in the Dayview lobby, ransacking my camera bag for an extra memory card, when—
“Dan?”
I glance up. It’s Arthur, Dayview security, waving a skinny manila package overhead. “Hey, man.”
“Natalie dropped this off earlier.”
My heart palpitates. Here it is, finally, I can feel it: Natalie’s swan song and the climax I’ve been craving. “She was here?”
“Yeah, about an hour ago.” He hands me the envelope. “She said to say good luck.”
A chill shimmies up my spine. I stand, tuck the package under my bag flap, and shake Arthur’s hand.
“Go on back to the auditorium, okay? They’re just setting up the chairs.”
It’s early still, so very few families are milling about. A couple of guys from campus services are still setting up like Arthur mentioned, and there’s a modest, makeshift concession stand by the exit—a table draped with nylon fabric offering bottles of water and individually wrapped protein snacks. I feel around in my bag for Nat’s package then ask Jeanne Carey, principal and superhuman, if Ryan’s around.
She nods enthusiastically, gesturing toward the exit with her clipboard. “He’s in the senior bungalow suiting up with everyone else.”
So I head back out the way I came in—down the carpeted corridor and outside to the basketball court. But instead of going to see Ryan right away, I duck quickly into the nearest boys’ bathroom and—“Hello?”—check to see if I’m alone before slipping into a toilet stall to frantically fish for Nat’s package. It’s square and pointy and far too thin to be a sizable stack of notes. I rip into it with two hands and my breath catches a bit. Another letter of course.
But just one.
Plus a cookie. The lumpy kind I like from that bakery on Larchmont; the one Nat would always bring me on days we met at Union Station.
I lean against the cool brick of the bathroom wall and unfold her note.
DAYVIEW, MAY 18, 2017, THURSDAY, 3:33 P.M.
So here it is, Dan—our final curtain call!
Are you ready for your closing bow? Ready for the wild and raucous applause of the crowd? I mean, you deserve it, Novio. You’ve turned in a Tony-award worthy performance this year—playing the good Samaritan, the loyal boyfriend, the doting son, the dependable friend. And what about me, huh? Am I by your side on that stage, curtsying like a debutante or a star thespian? Think hard, Dan, because I’d sure like to go out with a bow or a bang. I mean, who can resist a dramatic exit? Not me, clearly. I’m furiously at work right now writing our new ending—it’s interactive! Care to partake?
Sometime in late February when we were still screwing like crazy, when sex was the cheap glue that was keeping us stuck together, you said: “Can I film us?”
Screwing, you meant. We’d been mid-makeout and now you wanted to film us naked and vulnerable doing obscene things to each other. My gut reacted with a fat freaking NO, but you had this goddamn GLINT in your eye, Dan. You were stroking my hair and smiling roguishly and you just seemed so excited and into me and you hadn’t been either of those things in so long that instead of just saying what I wanted to say which was ABSOLUTELY NOT, I went, “What do you mean? Like right now?”
“Yeah, I’ve got my camera.”
My stomach flipped. I’d seen this shit go wrong before: leaked celebrity sex tapes; high school nobodies with their faces/tits/splayed legs popping up on Porn Hub and RedTube. I wasn’t interested in being internet smut, nor did I want my peers seeing me weak and exposed, BUT (and this is a really big BUT, Dan) I wanted to please you. I was DESPERATE to keep you. I’d never thought of myself as the pathetic, spineless, doormat type, but our relationship had turned into a messy pile of misery, and while you may not have liked me anymore you sure as shit still wanted to have sex with me, so I was going to let you. Even if you wanted to film it. “Maybe?” I said.
“Maybe?”
“Yeah, but what’s, like, the point exactly?”
“I mean, don’t you think it’s kind of hot?”
“I guess?”
“We could watch it afterward.”
“I’m not sure I want to watch myself.”
“But you’re so sexy,” you purred like some sort of Lothario. What had happened to my squeaky-clean, virgin boyfriend?
“If we do this, you have to swear to me you’ll never show it to anyone.”
“But what if we want to watch it with our grandkids one day?”
I laughed and slapped you. “Promise me!”
“Okay, I promise.”
“No, like, MEAN IT, Dan.”
“I swear,” you said and you sounded sincere so I went, “Okay, but you can’t, like, brag about it to your friends later on. You can’t be, like,” I lowered my voice, “‘Oh, I made a sex tape.’”
You were laughing now too, and it felt nice. We hadn’t laughed like this in forever.
So maybe I could do this. It would be like making art, only smuttier. “All right,” I said, relenting. “Sure, why not?”
And you were so excited, remember? You jumped out of bed and set up the camera and I slipped off my clothes and what happened next was absurd and a little awkward and sometimes thrilling but embarrassing too, and when it was over I felt funny but you clearly didn’t; you looked big and puffed up, exactly how Kitty Carlisle looks after she’s killed some sad spider who, seconds earlier, had been creeping happily, lazily across the living room floor.
You had the power now, Dan.
I was the prey.
It was your camera, your file, you were the man on top. I had nothing but your word, which I now know was worthless.
Because you didn’t keep your
promise, did you?
This is how you broke me, Dan.
And now I’m going to break you.
Meet me at the pool on the Eagle Hill side of campus at 4:30 p.m.
If you don’t show I will fucking annihilate you.
Publicly.
X, Natalie
DAN, 4:22 P.M.
HOLY SHIT.
What a colossal fucking mistake.
How could I have missed this?
How could I have not seen the Sanskrit on the wall and put the pieces together sooner?
“Hello?”
How the hell did she find out?
And why did I insist on filming us to begin with?
What did I even get out of shooting that video anyway? A half an hour of cheap thrills? A few weeks’ worth of whack-off material?
“Natalie?”
It was an honest slipup. One fast, false move. One careless flick of the mouse and I’d somehow managed to do the thing I swore I’d never do: humiliate her.
Expose her.
“Nat, you here?”
The fluorescents flicker on and Natalie steps out from behind a wall of bright metal cubbies. “Boo,” she says, and I go cold. She’s stunning and smiling, her eyes blazing with hot fury—two amber balls dancing in the blue light reflecting off the still pool.
“Hey,” she says, and she seems super keyed up. She’s shifting back and forth from leg to leg. “Did you miss me?”
I didn’t, but I can’t say that, can I? Her gaze darts to my bag, which hangs low by my hip.
“Is your camera in there?” she asks, wasting zero time. I quickly grab the strap on my bag and keep my hand there.
“Please don’t,” I plead. She knows nothing matters more to me than seeing this ceremony through. That Ryan’s graduation is the most crucial piece of my project. That my future, that all my scholarship bullshit, that ALL OF MY SELF-WORTH—it’s all tied up in this one moment. “Whatever you’re about to do, you don’t have to do it. You know that, right? We can talk about this.”
“Just give me the bag, Dan.” She sounds so easy-breezy, as if she isn’t about to destroy my life, and along with it, twelve hundred bucks worth of brand-new equipment.
“It was an accident,” I blurt, eager to cut to the punch. “I was afraid someone would see the video on my computer, so I labeled it something innocuous and stuck it in my Dayview folder. But then a few weeks ago I put together a rough cut of all the footage I had of Ryan, and I sent it to a few guys for feedback.” I shrug helplessly. “Only I sent the wrong file. I’d named both ‘Espinosa 2,’ but one file name had an actual two in it and the other one had a roman numeral.”
She doesn’t react. She shifts again from leg to leg, her face frozen. “The camera, Dan.”
I consider making a run for it, but I know that if I flee she’ll just follow, surely finding a way to sabotage commencement with some sort of verbal and very public character assassination. “I felt horrible about it, Nat.”
“Aw,” she says, feigning pity with an exaggerated pout. “Pretty sure I felt worse.”
“I only sent it to Whitman and a few other guys.”
“Only?”
“And they all swore they deleted it,” I say, but had they really? Nat knows about the leak after all, so maybe one of them lied? “How exactly did you . . . ?”
“Find out?”
I nod slowly. Did someone confront her? Is she still reading my emails post-breakup?
“The elf told me.”
My stomach plummets. “Arielle?”
“Cool twist, right?”
I think back on my conversation—confrontation?—with Ari from earlier. It’s not me you should be saying sorry to. “But how?” I ask. “I don’t get it. How did Ari know about the tape?”
“Whitman, Dan. He thought it was fucking hilarious.”
I wince. I swear to God if he were here I’d pummel him. “Nat—” I want so badly to rewind time and undo all of it—the file mishap, the video, my indiscretion with Ruby. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, no sweat,” she says with biting insincerity. “Your girl Ari really came through for me. I guess she had some sort of colossal realization when she saw us screwing on-screen.”
“I never meant to hurt you, or embarrass you, or—”
“Embarrass me?” she says, visibly pissed. “That’s sort of underselling it, don’t you think? I’m pretty sure what you did could be considered a criminal act in some states.” Her eyes go wide and wild.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.”
“But I am.”
“I don’t care. Do you seriously not understand how fucking terrible you are?”
I have never, ever felt guilt like this.
“Dan?”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
She looks at me for a long beat, and then suddenly she’s crying. “I hate you,” she whispers, her cheeks going red, her chin doing its signature quiver.
I have an overwhelming urge to hold her. “What can I do?” I ask meekly.
“Fuck off.”
I get up and go to her. I know I shouldn’t. I know I’m the one who’s doing the hurting, but I can’t stop myself. “Nat.”
She falls against my chest, sobbing wildly. I touch her hair and smell her sweet scalp and rub her hot back while she cries. “No one has ever hurt me as bad as you,” she says, dotting my shirt with tears and loose lashes. “You’ve broken my heart, Dan.”
I wrap my arms around her shoulders and squeeze hard.
And that’s when it happens.
When I’m defenseless.
She slips the bag off my shoulder and tosses my camera into the water.
“Natalie, no!”
And it sinks.
And everything slows to a near stop.
Screaming, I bolt for the pool, my fists cutting the air while I run. But Nat grabs my shirt, dragging me back. “Let go,” I yell, slipping on the wet tile then landing on my knees; jeans soaking up puddles of murky, chlorinated water, my legs pulsating with a sudden, searing pain.
“I had to,” she says softly, bending down to meet my gaze with an apologetic look. “I had to make things right with us. Even the score, you know?”
Exhausted, broken, I roll sideways onto my butt, my eyes burning with the sting of defeat.
“Are you crying?” Nat asks with incredulity.
“No,” I tell her. But I am. I’m completely fucking wrecked.
I inhale.
She exhales.
Our arms brush lightly while we watch the pool ripple and wave.
“I loved you so much,” she says after a long beat, her voice thick with what sounds like a stuck sob.
I shake my head disbelievingly. Everything I’ve worked so hard for, my movie’s climax, my entire future—she’s demolished it. Or maybe I did that myself. My dreams drowned in the Eagle Hill lap pool. “We destroyed each other.”
Nat blinks at me.
“No, like, really,” I say, running a hand over my face. “Like, we fucking leveled each other.”
She smiles sadly then rests her head on my shoulder. And it feels good. Which makes me think that I’m profoundly, deeply screwed up.
“Dan?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you with Ruby now?”
I wince with remorse. “No, Nat. I’m not with Ruby.”
We both stare into space for a bit. After a minute, Nat sits up and checks her phone. “It’s nearly five,” she says, twisting sideways to look at me; her face an awkward, anxious grimace. “You should go. You should tell Jane and Ryan what happened with your camera.”
I disentangle myself then stand up. “I should probably fish my bag out of the pool first. My wallet’s in there.”
“Oh right.” She bites her lip then looks around. “I’ll get a net. You want help, yeah?” We lock eyes and I wonder if this is the last time I’ll see her.
“Yeah,” I say with a shrug, taking her
hand and pulling her upright.
MAY 19, 2017, FRIDAY, 3:36 P.M., TEXT
To: Ben Whitman
From: Dan Jacobson
You’re a dick, Whitman.
JUNE 21, 2017, WEDNESDAY, 6:53 P.M., EMAIL
To: Dan Jacobson
From: Jane Espinosa
Wanted to update you. Just got a call from Cheryl Levine over at Pegasus in Altadena. She got Ryan a place in their day program for the upcoming year. We’re thrilled, Dan. We’re celebrating at the house on Friday night if you want to stop by for some pie. Ry would love to see you.
Jane
JULY 3, 2017, MONDAY, 12:02 P.M., TEXT
To: Dan Jacobson
From: Jessa Jacobson
Just ran into Ruby at the Rite Aid in Westwood. She was with that UCLA dude she used to date. THEY WERE KISSING IN THE COSMETICS AISLE!!!!!
JULY 26, 2017, WEDNESDAY, 12:20 A.M., CHAT
N_Fierro: Just got home. We mostly talked about the program and the prep work we’ve been doing for MOCA. He wants to curate when he’s all grown up, and he seems very enthusiastic about my work, which is nice.
AlexaMcKay17: Did you kiss?
N_Fierro: Yes, and that was nice too.
AlexaMcKay17: JUST nice?
N_Fierro: Well, I’m working on finding joy and validation within myself these days.
AlexaMcKay17: Ha. Praise Buddha.
N_Fierro: And you know, I’m never gonna be so furiously in love with this guy, so wild with desirous jealousy that I write him a sixteen-part breakup letter that culminates in sabotage, heartache, and destroyed dreams.
AlexaMcKay17: Oh right.
N_Fierro: But maybe that’s a good thing?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Undying thanks to Anica Rissi, most treasured friend. This book would not exist without you and your brilliant brain, and I am forever grateful for your support, generosity, guidance, and encouragement, and for always being up for endless (and endlessly deep!) late-night talks over text.
To my smart, insightful editor, Alex Arnold. Working with you this past year has been such a creatively fulfilling experience. I feel so lucky to have connected with someone who understands and appreciates the kind of romance novel I’m interested in writing: one that’s messy and exhilarating and bleak but bright! You’ve helped me make Natalie and Dan’s story more compelling, honest, and real.