16 Ways to Break a Heart Page 2

  Two down, four to go. Christ, I still can’t keep up.

  I tuck the letter back in its envelope and quickly check my cell. Another text from Ruby:

  CALL ME.

  I’m not calling.

  I switch off my phone, dump my dishes in the sink, and head upstairs to shower. Natalie’s face flashes in my mind—head tipped back, hair flying. She was so beautiful that night. Happy and free. Maybe I did this all wrong. Took the easy way out. I should have fought harder instead of being the asshole coward who quits when shit gets rough.

  I could call her now, come clean; admit my wrongdoing and beg her forgiveness and then maybe, just maybe, we could try again?

  Or maybe not.

  Because here’s the truth: my life these past few weeks—sans Natalie—has been pleasantly serene and drama-free. Our relationship was like that merry-go-round—fast and thrilling but completely dizzying. No matter how many times we went around and around, we always ended up in the same spot. I can’t go back to that again. I’m sick of spinning in circles.

  “Consider this my official resignation. I’m dropping out of the game.”

  I stop outside the bathroom door, my mind reeling back to those last lines of her letter. Dropping out. Official resignation. What exactly is she hinting at? My immediate impulse is to get in the car and drive to her place—reassure myself that her need for drama hasn’t escalated to a darkly sensational place. Sensibly, I stop myself. This—the coded language and thinly veiled threats—it’s nothing new. As Ruby would say: “It’s classic Nat.” She baits me with a good ol’ manipulative guilt trip and I go running.

  Well, not this time, I’m not falling for it.

  I want off the Natalie Fierro thrill ride.

  DECEMBER 18, 2015, FRIDAY, 5:33 P.M., EMAIL

  From: Alexa McKay

  To: Natalie Fierro

  Okay, I’ve stalked him online and you’re absolutely right, he’s adorable. He looks corn-fed and bro-ish but in a sad, soulful way that works. I hope he worships you, Nat, really, truly, because you deserve it, especially after your adventures with what’s-his-face and that other awesome A-Hole Who Shall Not Be Named.

  BUT.

  But!

  Dude, I miss you. Can we please hang out this weekend? PLEASE? Pizza? Roller rink? Caffeine-fueled dollar-store shopping spree? Surely Public School Boyfriend can spare you for one measly night.

  XXX, Lex

  DECEMBER 21, 2015, MONDAY, 10:54 P.M., TEXT

  From: Natalie Fierro

  To: Alexa McKay

  Lex, I’m sooo sorry for being a mo-fo no-show! I’m a jerk! Forgive me? I was with the boy and lost track of time . . .

  DECEMBER 29, 2015, TUESDAY, 3:00 P.M., STICKY NOTE TACKED TO NATALIE’S BEDROOM DOOR

  Fluff, Alexa called the landline again. She’s still having a hard time reaching you on the cell. Call back.

  P.S. Here’s a twenty for takeout. We have Mom’s benefit at Redcat tonight and then tomorrow we’re out with the Sobels.

  —Dad

  3

  LOS ANGELES, MAY 5, 2017, FRIDAY, 7:14 P.M.

  Novio, I’m in SUCH a mood.

  I’m lying here on the floor of my Mod Podge–splattered studio, feeling desperately, wretchedly nostalgic for our easy early days. Remember what love was like before we destroyed it with our petty and monumental bullshit? I’m talking about the pre-sex days, when every kiss felt fucking epic; when just brushing up against each other was like being zapped by a benevolent stun gun. Remember the first time you came to the studio? I swear to God, Dan, stripping naked for you would’ve been easier. I was so scared you’d run screaming when you finally saw my collages; saw the fragmented, odd portraits that dressed the cement ceiling and walls. Girls upon girls patched together with pieces of other girls: pretty ones, ugly ones, sleeping ones, dying ones. Long, elegant necks I’d made with feet clipped from shoe catalogs. Big, poufy lips I’d done with nipples cut from porno mags.

  “Whoa” was all you said at first. You were standing in the middle of the room doing circles, scanning each portrait with wide, weird eyes.

  “You’re freaked out,” I said definitively, hating myself, wondering how long it would be before you backed out of our relationship. You’d seen my work, you’d seen the real me, and now you were wondering, “Who’s this whack-job artist I’m dating? What kind of sicko spends her Saturdays doing craft projects with photos of dismembered body parts?”

  But, “It’s really phenomenal,” you were saying instead, zeroing in on my most recent project: a half-done portrait of Lex I’d been working on for weeks. “The textures and the attention to detail. Like, how the hell did you DO this?” I felt a fast and hard rush of relief while you talked on. “The way this girl’s cheeks look like they’re flushing?”

  “That’s Alexa,” I said quickly. You two were about to meet, remember? She was probably already waiting for us around the block at Wurstküche. “Wait fifteen minutes, and you’ll be able to compare the original with the replica.”

  “The shadows . . .”

  “It’s nothing special,” I said, getting hot now, suddenly high off your praise and approval. “Really, it just takes a long time, finding the right colors to shade with.”

  You reached for me and pulled me forward in a swift motion that felt like a dance move. “You scare me a little, Fierro.”

  My stomach bubbled then dropped. Here it was, the moment I’d been dreading: when you finally admitted that you preferred sweet, prudish girls over weirdos who loved decoupage. “I scare you?”

  “Yeah,” you said, leaning forward, touching my nose with your nose.

  Testing the waters, I tilted my chin up: our lips grazed lightly.

  “You know, like, your brain,” you said inside my mouth.

  “What about my brain?” We were kissing suddenly. You were pressing me into a tiny portrait I’d done of Mariella, our housekeeper.

  “It’s like you got a better one than the rest of us.”

  My shoulder blades rocked the canvas. “That’s not true,” I said, because it wasn’t. Later you’d learn this. That my mind is a tricky labyrinth made up of dead ends and dark caves.

  “It is,” you said, cupping my face. “It just IS. You’re a star, Nat.”

  A freaking STAR, Dan. I nearly imploded with glee. What feels better than being told you’re the best by the best person you know? “I’m not,” I said, demurring, wanting to seem humble and sweet and coolly oblivious, as if it had never even occurred to me to pursue art with any sort of sincere commitment. I pretended not to want the things I wanted—fame, recognition, a future in art—because I thought you’d respect me more if I seemed self-effacing and humble. I loved that you encouraged my interests and talents, and I didn’t want to spoil it all by owning up to the truth: that I was, that I AM, shamefully ambitious. That art stardom is something I’ve been gunning for since I was a kid splashing around in Mae’s toxic oil paints. That I have a vision board buried at the back of my closet plastered with photos of Art Basel and the Whitney Biennial. That I am, that I always have been, striving to surpass my mother’s success.

  “Nat . . .” You were touching me softly now, your fingers tracing my bumpy spine up up up; your lips whispering my name into the hollows of my collarbone.

  I felt grossly validated and insanely turned on, and I miss that feeling now, Dan. Even on days when I hate you I think of moments like this when I loved you, and I remember that being your girl on good days was better than any high (from any guy) I’ve ever known.

  Fondly,

  Natalie

  DAN, 6:55 A.M.

  She’s mostly right about that night, that’s when I really fell for her. Blame it on the paint fumes or the aphrodisiac effects of newsprint and glue, but she really dazzled me with her talent. Nat’s studio was as visually stunning as it was assaulting, and had I not known where I was that night I might’ve thought I was trapped inside the prison cell of a creatively inclined, paranoid schizophrenic
. Or a genius. Though those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, I guess.

  I’d known other arty girls before Nat. I’d had friends at school who’d dabbled in ceramics and sculpture, who had taken shitty, shadowy photos that they thought were edgy and avant-garde. For them art was just a hobby. Something they did after school or on weekends that they talked about pursuing in college but likely never would. And not to sound like a complete dick, but I just sort of figured that Nat was the same way. That collaging was a pastime, something she did to blow off artistic steam. Sounds ridiculous, I know, since I’d known about her Getty show, I’d known that her mother was a semi-famous painter, but I just hadn’t met any girls before Nat that had matched me in talent and drive.

  Not only did she match me. She surpassed me.

  I hadn’t recognized it before, but there it was on a platter: you’re dating a girl who’s too good for you, Dan.

  We never did meet up with Alexa that night. We stayed at the studio and did filthy and fantastic things to each other. But when we finally did meet up with her several weeks later, she was nothing like the blushing, shy girl I thought I’d seen in Nat’s portrait. She was tall and skinny in a shapeless black dress, waving a menu enthusiastically from the back of the line at Wurstküche. “Hi!”

  Nat threw herself at Lex like a lover might. “This is him!” she said, meaning me. She pulled back and pointed. “He’s cute, right?”

  “He is,” Lex said, extending a hand, which I shook. “Enchanté, Public School Boyfriend.”

  “Pleasure,” I said, stiffening a little.

  “This line is atrocious,” Lex said, and it was, it wrapped around the block. “Dan, do you like pizza?”

  “You mean sausages?” We were in line for sausages.

  “Pizza,” she repeated with exasperation. “Or hiking? Fly fishing maybe? Installation art?”

  I looked at Nat nervously. “What’s she doing right now?”

  “I’m trying to find some common ground,” Lex said to me like duh. “Have you ever made pasta from scratch?”

  “She’s fucking with you,” Nat said, squeezing my hand reassuringly. Then to Lex, “Stop fucking with him.”

  “I’m a pretty big film buff,” I offered lightly.

  “Oh yeah? Me too. I just saw this old movie. Meshes of the Afternoon?”

  Meshes was a surrealist short from the forties. No way in hell would anyone our age know it unless they were a complete cinephile. “Oh man, that’s a rough one.”

  “Too esoteric, right?”

  “Yeah, just, like, way too trippy.”

  Her smile relaxed into something softer and more genuine. Nat looked at Lex and then back at me and said, “Awesome, you passed her test with flying colors. Now can we talk about something that I like to talk about?”

  “Like what?” Lex said. “Like you?”

  “Sure, why not,” Nat said, smiling impishly while rubbing against Lex like a cat. “Let’s talk about me me me.”

  Later, inside, we ate veggie sausages slathered in mustard and relish. Nat and Lex sat together on the other side of the communal table, making in-jokes, throwing food, whispering to each other then laughing loudly because unlike me they just couldn’t give two shits about good manners or shame. That’s how it is in LA when you’re raised by rich, brash, famous people.

  Take Lex’s dad: a former playboy and drug addict who was in a hugely popular hair band in the eighties before committing successfully to a sober existence as a husband, dad, and music exec. Her mother, an ex–catalog model, now threw ostentatious parties that somehow raised money for starving children in Africa. Alexa, just like Natalie, could do whatever the hell she wanted in life because her parents had paved her way. She could go to China for a semester (and she had—she now spoke semi-fluent Mandarin). She could pursue a career as an actress (and she was—she’d just booked a small but recurring role on a popular daytime soap). She could eat caviar-covered truffles with a side of foie gras at every meal. She could behave abysmally in restaurants. Not that she had exactly, but she could. I, however, could not.

  Because I went to public school.

  Because my dad was a tax attorney with mountains of debt.

  “Nat says you make movies?” Alexa asked, gazing lovingly at Nat, not me.

  “Yeah, nothing feature length yet. I’m working on a documentary short right now about a kid I work with at Dayview.”

  “Oh, where Nat volunteers. That’s how you two met.”

  “Right.”

  “So that’s the ultimate for you, Dan?” Lex’s head was cocked, her tongue resting in the crook between her upper and lower lip. “Documentaries? That’s your aspiration?”

  It was my aspiration. I was aspiring still. Unlike these two, who were already making shit happen. How had I not managed to complete a project yet? Why hadn’t I shown at Sundance already or SXSW? I sat there grinning dully doing the math: Nat’s insane talent coupled with her mother’s contacts could really take her far in life. And even if I could one day match her in genius and drive, I’d still have to work twice as hard just to keep the pace. Would I ever measure up? If we stayed together long-term would she eventually see through me and lose interest? Did I even deserve her attention now?

  “Yep, filmmaker, that’s the goal,” I said, holding my smile steady. Nat bit the tip off a french fry and beamed back with pride.

  JANUARY 17, 2016, SUNDAY, 12:46 A.M., CHAT

  R_Lefèvre: You’re up.

  DanWithABattlePlan: Yeah, just Google-stalking Natalie, no biggie.

  R_Lefèvre: Find anything?

  DanWithABattlePlan: I’m on Getty Images obsessing over a photo of her from some event last year. She’s with a guy. Trying to figure out if they dated.

  R_Lefèvre: Can’t Google tell you that sort of stuff now?

  DanWithABattlePlan: Amazingly, no.

  R_Lefèvre: And Getty Images? Who the hell is this girl? A Disney princess?

  DanWithABattlePlan: He looks rich.

  R_Lefèvre: Are his teeth capped with solid gold?

  DanWithABattlePlan: No, but he’s wearing a diamond tiara.

  R_Lefèvre: Then he probably isn’t bonking your girl, Dan.

  DanWithABattlePlan: I’m losing my mind.

  R_Lefèvre: You’re jealous?

  DanWithABattlePlan: Violently.

  R_Lefèvre: Huh.

  DanWithABattlePlan: What?

  R_Lefèvre: Nothing.

  DanWithABattlePlan: WHAT?

  R_Lefèvre: I mean, is she really that great?

  DanWithABattlePlan: Yes.

  R_Lefèvre: Really?

  DanWithABattlePlan: Yes.

  DanWithABattlePlan: We went out with a friend of hers tonight. Alexa McKay.

  R_Lefèvre: Should I know her?

  DanWithABattlePlan: She’s on a soap opera.

  R_Lefèvre: So?

  DanWithABattlePlan: So Nat’s whole crowd is famous.

  R_Lefèvre: I’d hardly call soap stardom the pinnacle of fame.

  DanWithABattlePlan: I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  R_Lefèvre: I don’t know what’s wrong with you either.

  DanWithABattlePlan: I’ve never liked anyone this much before.

  DanWithABattlePlan: Hello?

  DanWithABattlePlan: Ruby?

  R_Lefèvre: I’m here.

  DanWithABattlePlan: You okay?

  R_Lefèvre: Why?

  DanWithABattlePlan: What’d you do earlier?

  R_Lefèvre: Veggie sushi night here at the Lefèvre house.

  DanWithABattlePlan: Seaweed salad?

  R_Lefèvre: You know it.

  DanWithABattlePlan: Rubes.

  R_Lefèvre: What?

  DanWithABattlePlan: I really want you guys to meet.

  R_Lefèvre: Mmk.

  DanWithABattlePlan: You don’t wanna meet her?

  R_Lefèvre: No, I do.

  DanWithABattlePlan: Will you Google this guy and tell me he’s a troll?

  R
_Lefèvre: What’s his name?

  DanWithABattlePlan: Jason Paruch.

  R_Lefèvre: He looks smug.

  DanWithABattlePlan: Right?

  DanWithABattlePlan: Should I be worried?

  R_Lefèvre: About?

  DanWithABattlePlan: I don’t know. Is he better than me?

  R_Lefèvre: You’re fishing.

  R_Lefèvre: No, Dan, no one’s better than you.

  DanWithABattlePlan: Promise?

  R_Lefèvre: Don’t be desperate. It’s not a good look.

  4

  LOS ANGELES, MAY 6, 2017, SATURDAY, 6:45 P.M.

  Break out the candy hearts and pink carnations, Dan!

  It’s me again, the Ghost of Love-Gone-Wrong, here to guide you through the memory of our first and only Valentine’s together: the Chinese takeout, the sparkling cider, Casablanca on mute, and Django Reinhardt on the stereo . . .

  I’m wondering right now if you’re wondering if I’m writing you from your dad’s basement. After all, that’s where we spent the holiday—eating Slippery Shrimp with our fingers, reading Edna St. Vincent Millay poems, kissing and staring and groping and—are you picturing it? Me with my fancy calligraphy pen, crouched under the staircase while you and Jessa make spaghetti upstairs?

  Hello, stalker!

  Oh relax, boyfriend of yore, I’m not THAT crazy. I’m re-creating the moment at home with a bottle of Martinelli’s and some frozen Szechuan Beef.

  So, okay, flashback to that night, which started off pretty shitty: I showed up at your place in a mood after wasting the afternoon with my mother—she’d just been commissioned by the Westwood W to do this large-scale Picasso knockoff for their newly renovated lobby, and she had spent the better part of that week living out of her studio while I stayed home eating organic Pop-Tarts with Mariella, my real mom. Dad, the parent who usually doles out the cash, was in Korea for work, so I asked my mother for money. I needed a little extra for your V-Day gift, and, if I’m being completely frank, I just sort of felt like taking something from her. If she wasn’t going to give me love and hot, home-cooked meals, then the least she could do was make up for it with cold hard cash.