16 Ways to Break a Heart Page 4

“Fine.” She retreated, pulling her hand back. “How’d the dinner go?”

  I smiled, remembering Ryan happily gobbling up small bites of cold cheese tamale with his fingertips. Ryan’s dad talking animatedly about the Clippers game. The hibiscus-flavored iced tea. The hour-long interview with Ryan’s mom on the deck. “It was really great and, like, pretty moving, you know? They’re an incredible family. So warm and funny. They’re just, like, trying really hard to make the best of their situation. It’s really inspiring.”

  I looked over. Nat’s face was pancake-flat.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I’m dead serious. I’m talking about something that’s really important to me right now and you couldn’t seem less engaged.”

  “I mean, when are you not talking about your goddamn movie?”

  Stunned, I stuttered a bit before saying, “You know how important this project is, right?”

  “Yeah, you never let me forget it.”

  “These kids—”

  “I know, I know, they’re incredible and you’re their mouthpiece. You’re doing such important work, Dan.”

  My face flushed with mad heat. I’d been working this hard for her. To impress her. To keep up with her, and, “Nat—”

  “You know . . .” She rubbed her eyes with two fists, smearing makeup—heavy and black—across her pale cheeks. “If you had come with me last night, I wouldn’t have gotten so messed up.” She rolled down her window and the air hit my face fast and hard, like a slap. Abruptly, with zero hesitation, she hoisted herself up, thrusting the upper half of her body outside.

  Scared shitless, I jumped and the car lurched right. We were doing eighty on the 110, surrounded on all sides; I couldn’t slow down or stop or—

  “Jesus, Natalie!” I tried dragging her backward by the dress hem, but she resisted, screaming gleefully; waving one hand high in the air while the other clung to the car’s interior. “Nat, please! You’re scaring me!” My heart was galloping. I was sweating and near tears, reaching for her while trying to keep the car steady.

  “You’re missing out, Dan!”

  I swerved right, laying into the horn, whispering a silent prayer as I tried to get us safely to the freeway shoulder. Nat was waving to fellow motorists while I slammed brakes and accelerated like a lunatic. It was nearly a minute before I reached the emergency lane—finally able to park the car and kill the engine. Nat—eyes wild, hair huge—slunk down in her seat, looking electrified. “That was awesome,” she said, breathless and grinning.

  “Awesome?” My body pulsated with rage. “See this?” I held a hand up; I was trembling still, my fingers shaking with crazy adrenaline. “You fucking terrify me.”

  Her face changed then—a sudden shift from light to dark. “I thought you’d appreciate a solid cinematic moment. Where’s your camera, Dan?”

  It took me a second, but then it dawned on me: she was jealous. Of my movie. “This is about Dayview? Seriously?”

  “You never make time for me.”

  “You nearly got us killed just now, you realize that, right?”

  “I don’t care,” she said, pitching forward in her seat, her eyes filling with angry tears. “I’m not afraid to die.”

  A chill shot through me. “Don’t say that.”

  She looked at me, her chin quivering. “Would you even care?”

  “If you died? Stop it.” Softening, I slid a hand around her head and pulled her close. She let out a broken sob and scurried quickly across the seat, wrapping her arms around my waist like a needy toddler. “You can’t do things like that,” I said, squeezing her.

  “I know. I won’t do it again.”

  “Promise me.”

  She pulled back, her gaze severe and unblinking. “Swear it,” she said, leaning in, sealing the pledge with a kiss.

  MAY 15, 2016, SUNDAY, 10:33 A.M., CHAT

  M_Haney: Were you at Krystal Wang’s last night?

  Audra_Rey: Yep.

  M_Haney: I heard Fierro got shit-faced and hit on Bryce De Vitis.

  Audra_Rey: Oui oui. She doesn’t deserve Dan Jacobson.

  M_Haney: You’re really into that guy, huh?

  Audra_Rey: I’m not really into that guy. I just think that one day when I’m all grown up he might actually see me and want to marry me and give me babies. He’s making a documentary about disabled kids, you know.

  M_Haney: Noble. You should blow him.

  Audra_Rey: I will one day. I’m just waiting for that romance to implode on its own before I strike.

  6

  LOS ANGELES, MAY 8, 2017, MONDAY, 6:49 P.M.

  Dan,

  If I’m being completely honest (and I am), I’ve never understood your obsession with Ruby Lefèvre. She’s neurotic, she’s bitchy, she lacks ambition, and her clothes are drab. If I went to public school and got to wear a brand-new outfit each day, Jesus Christ, I’d make it count: it’d be caftans and miniskirts and moto jackets all year long! And sometimes all at once!

  I’m writing you from a bench by Angels Flight (“The Shortest Railway in the World!”) and across the street from La Cita, the restaurant where we celebrated Ruby’s seventeenth. You were in such a ridiculous mood that night: giddy, jumpy, excited to introduce your “two favorite girls” to each other.

  “Rubes, this is Nat.”

  I was initially thrown by how pretty she was—curvy and fresh-faced; freckled with big lips. She looked mixed race to me. Half black, half white, maybe? I might’ve been jealous if her posture had been better. She just looked so . . . defeated.

  “Ruby!” I threw myself at her.

  “Heyyyyyy,” she said, giving me a stiff, one-armed hug. “Great to finally meet you.” That was a lie, wasn’t it? She looked like she’d just sucked down a liter of lemon juice. “Do you two need drinks? Whitman’s brother is bartending. He’ll serve you, no questions asked.”

  “Whitman’s brother?”

  “Whitman,” you said, pointing at an absurdly tall dude standing near us in a ski cap, and then, “Whitman’s brother.” This was a different guy now, one with longer hair, tending bar. “You want a beer?”

  I nodded. I was excited to get some alone time with Ruby. THE Ruby. Your BFF, your partner in crime, the girl with the wicked sense of humor and the sensible sensibility. I tried engaging her, but she was already chatting with a big bunch of Valley dorks. Nerdy girls who wore their smarts as accessories—one girl in a Moby-Dick T-shirt, the “K” in the “Dick” stretched widely across her left boob.

  “Udon, not ramen,” said the boob girl. I was hovering on the periphery of their conversation, stupidly eager to join in.

  “I can’t do either,” said someone else. “They’re both wheat.”

  “They’re rice noodles.”

  “They’re not.”

  “You could eat soba,” I said, smiling at the group. “It’s made with buckwheat, which is actually, like, a seed.”

  “A seed?”

  “Right, like, quinoa? It’s really delicious.”

  “Who ARE you?” said someone short.

  “I’m Natalie.”

  “Dan’s girlfriend,” Ruby offered flatly.

  “Oooohhh,” the girls said back, looking me up then down like judgmental shrews.

  Feeling unwelcome, I excused myself; I figured I’d find you by the bar. I’d say, “Ruby’s friends suck, let’s leave.” You’d think I was being intolerant. I’d go, “Dan, it’s a girl thing. It’s all very subtle.” Of course, none of that happened because I couldn’t find you—you weren’t by the bar or by the bathrooms; you weren’t with Whitman on the dance floor. Turns out you were outside on the smoking patio, clutching two wet Tecate cans and talking to a very pretty blonde.

  “Who’s this?” I said, sidling up.

  “Nat, this is Arielle.”

  “Arielle, huh?” Her dress was tight; her hair, long; her features, sharp and elfin, like something out of a Tolkien novel. “How do you know my b
oyfriend?”

  “We have, ah, ceramics together.”

  “You take, ah, ceramics now?”

  “Yeah, since January,” you said. “We’re making bowls.”

  “Bowls, huh?”

  “And mugs,” she said.

  “That’s cool,” I said, trying really hard to feel cool about it. “I was thinking of ordering something. You hungry?”

  “Not really.” You turned away from me and smiled obliviously at the elf. “Do you think Turner’s single?”

  “Turner?” I asked, trying to keep up.

  “Our teacher,” said the girl. “She’s like . . .” She looked at you and laughed and you laughed back and went, “You kind of have to know her to get it.”

  “So it’s like a private joke,” I said.

  “Right.”

  “Between you two.”

  She shrugged. I glared at you. I was THIS CLOSE to implosion. “Can we go, please?”

  “We just got here.”

  “Right, well, Ruby hates me and her friends are bitches, and I didn’t come here to stand alone in a corner while you discuss kilns and glazes with—” I shot an expectant look at the blonde.

  “Arielle.”

  “Right, Arielle.”

  You thrust a Tecate can into my hand and pulled me off to one side. “What’s your problem?”

  “Nothing. I’m totally cool with you batting your lashes at your ceramics partner while your friends make me feel like a leper.”

  “I’m not interested in Arielle, Nat. And anyways, she’s dating Whitman.”

  “Oh, but if she were single?”

  “Come on!”

  “I want to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re making me feel like dog shit.” I tossed the beer into a trash can and headed back inside.

  “Nat!”

  “Arielle can drive you home.”

  “Natalie!”

  “What?” I whipped around, livid. “You don’t need me. You’re surrounded by people who think you’re a fucking Adonis.”

  “Are you for real?”

  A nauseating wave of regret hit me like a Mack Truck. Why was I being like this? Had you really given me reason to freak out? Maybe the elf WAS just some girl you glazed bowls with. Maybe Ruby was shy and introverted, not cold and exclusionary. Why was I acting like a needy, petulant six-year-old? “I’m sorry,” I whispered, meaning it.

  You deflated. “Why don’t you trust me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t like Arielle, Nat.” You slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “I like YOU.”

  “Are you sure?” I said, suddenly racked with guilt. How could you like me when I was behaving so badly?

  “Yes.”

  We kissed. It was soft, sweet, and brief. “Ruby hates me.”

  “She doesn’t, she’s just not effusive like you.” You brushed a few stray hairs from my face. “That temper, Nat . . .”

  “I know.”

  Another kiss. “One beer, okay? Then we’ll go?”

  “Dan . . .”

  “We can’t leave yet. It’s her birthday, and she’s my best friend.”

  So we stayed.

  But I still made you leave after one beer.

  Because the drinks didn’t make Ruby any nicer, and they certainly didn’t make that girl go away.

  Nat

  DAN, 7:35 A.M.

  Wait, that’s it? The sixth and final letter but no explosive finale? No sharp turns or dark twists? Where’s the big blowout, Nat? The fireworks display?

  I get off the train at North Hollywood and start the half-mile trek to school. It’s cool out and a little damp—morning dew in the desert. I’ve plotted this day a billion times before in my head: what I’d need for the after-school ceremony (camera, tripod, tie and blazer), what I’d want to be thinking about (interview subjects to shoot for, questions to ask, list of b-roll shots to get), what I’d need to keep myself panic-free (a mantra, a copy of Siddhartha, a Xanax Nat gave me months ago that I keep as a backup just in case the mantra doesn’t work). Bottom line: I was prepared for any hiccups in my plan. Any.

  Except this one.

  Instead of worrying about my equipment malfunctioning or my subjects being evasive or boring, I’m wrapped up in some elaborate manipulation designed by my scary, scorned ex-girlfriend. Crazy fluke? Kooky twist of fate? Or exactly what she planned?

  That night with Nat was horrible. Her version makes her sound semi-sane, but she went full-blown berserk—screaming at me in front of Arielle Schulman, dragging me home almost immediately because of some insignificant, imaginary slight. I spent the following day doing damage control: sending apologies to Arielle and Whitman; trying to get ahold of Ruby, who was ignoring my incessant texts. I ended up having to make amends to Ruby in person; showing up on her doorstep with a spray of purple weeds I’d clipped from my neighbor’s backyard.

  “What’s that?” Ruby asked, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against the stucco exterior of her parents’ house. “A ‘my girlfriend’s an asshole, please forgive me’ bouquet?”

  “She’s not, Rubes, she’s just . . .” I searched for the word, but Ruby was right. Nat had been an absolute asshole. “Insecure.”

  “That’s what that is?”

  “Be mad at me, okay? Not her?”

  “I am mad at you. You left.”

  “Can I come in? Can we talk about it?”

  She rolled her eyes and grabbed the weeds. I followed her quickly inside.

  Ruby and I met when we were thirteen in an eighth-grade language arts class. I’d known she existed before that but barely: she was just another face in the hallway; the quiet girl who stood behind me in the lunch line sometimes; the girl who hung out with Lisa Hicks, the track team’s star sprinter.

  But Ruby wasn’t the star of anything. She wasn’t the prettiest or the loudest or the most dramatic or athletic—she wasn’t anything really until one day she was everything.

  Our spark started small, with some in-class sass about The Old Man and the Sea: “Did I really just waste three days of my life reading about some old dude and a fish?” I’d felt the same way about the book but never would’ve bashed Hemingway publicly, especially not to our teacher, Krasinski, who had a habit of publicly shaming her more free-thinking students.

  I smiled at Ruby. An under-the-radar kind of grin while Krasinski shouted things like “Pulitzer” and “classic” and “your generation.” And Ruby smiled back. She reminded me so much of Jessa—all that snark and strength and righteous indignation. She immediately felt like home.

  “You got a vase for those things?” I asked as Ruby hurried down the hall to the kitchen. The flowers slapped against her thigh while she walked, tiny petals littering the hardwood floors.

  “I think so, yeah. You want tea?”

  “Sure, Grandma.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped, dropping the weeds into a tall, slender pitcher. Ruby hated—still hates—being teased for her pragmatism and maturity. “I’m not your granny.”

  I winced with guilt. Things had been off with us lately, but pre-Nat, Ruby and I had been so in sync: dirty jokes over sloppy bowls of pho, night hikes in Griffith Park, movie marathons, eating contests, backyard relays with Ruby’s kid brother, Noah. “I’m sorry.”

  “For which part?” she said, her baby face scrunched into a defensive little grimace. “The part where you made me feel insignificant? Or your girlfriend did?”

  “See?” I threw my hands up, smiling to undercut the weirdness. “This is all just a big misunderstanding. Nat feels the exact same way, but you’re both, like, so important to me.”

  “I’ve barely seen you in months.”

  “You see me every day.”

  “Yeah, at school.” She smiled cheerlessly. “It’s not the same.”

  It wasn’t the same; she was right. The week before I met Nat, Ruby had spent three nights at my place in my bed. No
thing sexual of course, things had never gotten romantic between us, but Ruby and I, we liked our sleepovers. We’d make massive plates of linguine with pesto and chase those down with gelato from the fancy Italian place on Vermont. We’d scour Netflix for the most abstruse, esoteric French films we could find, then online stalk the people we hated most. We’d watch acrobatic porn while crying with laughter. We’d get arty and weird together, reading Keats and Plath and Neruda out loud. Occasionally we’d even cuddle, but it was never a thing, you know? It was just something sweet that we did that felt really nice—falling asleep, bodies stuffed with foreign foods, limbs warm and loose and entwined. Just some good old-fashioned, harmless fun, though nothing you could do with a girlfriend around. Especially one like Natalie, with a jealous streak as hot and long as a comet tail.

  “You’re different with her.” Ruby was glaring at me now. My heart pinged and I closed the space between us.

  “I’m not,” I said, going in for a hug. She felt like a slab of cement. “You’re not letting me fix this.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” she said, pulling back, the crinkle between her brow deepening. “I don’t like her.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “Regan Weiss does. She says she’s completely psychotic.”

  “Stop it.”

  “And Whitman said she had a full-blown meltdown on the smoking patio last night.”

  “It wasn’t a meltdown,” I said, even though it was totally, irrefutably a meltdown. “She felt threatened.”

  “By what?”

  “She thought Arielle—”

  “Let me guess.” Ruby shook her head, cutting me off. “She thinks she’s into you.”

  “She does, but—”

  “Oh, come on, you’re gonna try and deny it? She’s like a salivating puppy around you!”

  I felt flattered and afraid.

  “Promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “That you’ll be careful around her.”

  “Arielle?”

  “No, dork. Your crazy girlfriend.”

  I exhaled dramatically. “Can you give her a chance? Please?”

  Ruby watched me for a long beat; eyes like slits. “Why do you like her?”