16 Ways to Break a Heart Read online

  Sex is weird, isn’t it? There’s something so mind-fucky and thrilling about pretending to be something you’re not. The Naughty Nurse. The Wicked Mistress. I’d been so committed to playing my part—Virgin, Amateur, Naïf—I’d even planned to feign pain and fumble awkwardly. Tricky, yes, but I didn’t see a way around it. You were a virgin, Dan. You expected me to be one too.

  But see, I hadn’t expected it to feel so good. First-time sex always sucks. It sucks the first time you do it, and then it sucks each first time you do it with someone new. Before you, I’d always hated it. Then again, I’d never loved the person I was doing it with. And lying while loving you—all that shame mixed with fuzzy feelings of affection? Adoration?—it was, uh, kind of arousing. Shocking, no? Considering your virgin status?

  So here’s the gist of it: First time I did the deed I was thirteen. It was with my sixteen-year-old neighbor, a homeschooled kid with ADHD who had a recurring role on a popular teen soap. He was sweet, bizarre; he liked me a lot, and I completely screwed him over. We had sex twice. I never called him back after that.

  I didn’t do it again until I was fifteen when I dated Jason Paruch. He was a Red Bull–swilling, loafer-wearing, self-centered, self-serving prick. He treated me like shit and I loved it. One time he fucked someone else and I pretended not to notice so he’d stay with me. I was obsessed with him. He’s likely the reason why messed-up shit like guilt turns me on. We only went out for five months, but I stalked him for a year after our breakup. Honestly, I don’t think I got over him fully until I met you.

  There were two more guys after that: Erik Thormahlen and David Friedman. Both went to Harvard-Westlake. I don’t know if they knew each other. I only did it with each of them a few times.

  So why lie?

  Because I honestly didn’t think you’d still want me if you knew the truth. Not only was I not a virgin, but I’d been having sex with fair frequency for FOUR YEARS. And this wasn’t loving, sweet, relationship sex; this was fucking. And YOU? God, Dan, you were near perfect. Principled and romantic and idealistic and PURE. And you wanted someone equally noble.

  So that’s what I gave you. The good girl you’d fantasized about. The one you could deflower, defile, make love to.

  But you outgrew that fantasy pretty quick, didn’t you, D? The more sex we had and the better it got, the less you seemed to love me. Which makes sense, I guess. I mean, it’s pretty hard to respect a girl when she’s on all fours doing lewd things to you.

  FOR you.

  You thought you’d landed some saintly Madonna, didn’t you, Novio? But in actuality you’d fallen for a whore. Quelle surprise! Jeez Louise! Who can blame you for losing interest?

  Natalie

  DAN, 11:34 A.M.

  My heart’s doing some sort of arrhythmic dance.

  My hands are so wet they feel washed.

  Sometimes, still, when I’m awake late, when I’m dozing in class, I get flashes: Nat, naked, head hanging over me, blunt tips of her hair brushing my face.

  Her body, thin and pale, moving under mine.

  Silky sheets against smooth skin.

  The smell of jasmine mixed with sweat.

  It’s all so sharp and vivid. Memories I’ve replayed thousands of times. Now? They’re worthless. Each one a colossal fucking lie.

  I’ve been had.

  Completely duped.

  I did everything right too—I waited for the girl, the one with the open heart and awesome mind and huge aspirations and the talent. I picked the whip-smart one, the funny one, the sexy one with sass and morals. I couldn’t have cared less if she’d had sex before, regardless of what kind of sex she’d had. But Nat had to go and lie about it. She had to go and rewrite the narrative, manipulate our story.

  “I’ve never done this,” she said to me, lashes fluttering. “I’m so scared, Dan.”

  “What if it hurts?”

  “What if I bleed?”

  “What if I disappoint you?”

  And the whopper: “You’re the only guy I could ever imagine doing this with.”

  I believed all of it: every word, every gesture, every moan/groan/whimper. Which makes me a chump, sure. But am I a sexist idiot like her letter suggests? Am I having some sort of Freudian meltdown?

  No.

  Because this isn’t about what gets me off, this is about our sham of a relationship. About Natalie’s lies.

  Would I have preferred to have lost it to the inexperienced, virginal girl that I thought I was dating? Yeah, of course. But if she had just had enough integrity to come clean with me up front, I still would’ve wanted her, past or no past.

  Too bad she never gave me the chance to prove it.

  I straighten up, scan the quad, and pull my phone from my pocket. Arielle’s last text is dated 5/6, two weeks ago. Did you take substantial notes in Gloeckner’s lecture? If yes, can I borrow? I hadn’t responded, my head too full of breakup bullshit.

  Now, though? Now I’m feeling more clear.

  I type quickly, scared if I think too much I’ll wuss out. Where are you? I ask, hitting send.

  Her response is almost instantaneous: Chem lab. You?

  I’m skipping government. Meet me by west exit?

  Now?

  I pause, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Yes, now.

  Zero response. I pack my crap up anyway and head for the other side of campus.

  Arielle’s sitting on a rock when I arrive.

  “Wasn’t sure you’d be here,” I say.

  “You call, I come running.”

  I look down at the cement, feeling awkward. “You wanna walk and talk?”

  “Where to?”

  “I dunno, out there somewhere?” I wave a hand at the trees beyond the soccer field.

  “Can’t we just stay here?”

  “We could, but—” I try my most encouraging smile. “You’re not up for a stroll?”

  “I mean . . .” She looks around distractedly then checks her watch. “Did you have something to say to me or not?”

  I stiffen, embarrassed and a little confused. “Not specifically, no.” I smile again, hoping to shift the mood but she doesn’t smile back. She’s stony faced, waiting for a real reply.

  “I don’t . . .” I look down at the ground, flustered. “I think maybe we got our signals crossed?”

  “Our signals?”

  I feel my cheeks flush. Have I played a little too hard to get? Is she pissed that I never responded to that last text? “Is this about Gloeckner’s lecture?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just wanted to see you,” I say quickly. “I thought maybe you’d want to see me too.”

  “Dan.” Her face looks so strange. “Seriously?”

  “You can’t be mad,” I blurt. “I’ve had a girlfriend all year and we just broke up and I—”

  “This isn’t about—” She stops then starts again. “I have a boyfriend too, you know.”

  “I know that.”

  “And we’re not exclusive,” she says, which is true, they’re not; Whitman’s pretty unwavering in his commitment to no-strings sex. “So I haven’t been doing anything wrong, talking to you. I’m allowed to, like, hang out with other guys.”

  “I know.”

  She looks so small and sad suddenly. Nothing like the brazen flirt who’s been sending me coquettish texts all year long. I think about my own situation with Natalie and wonder if Ari’s hard-core persistence this year has had less to do with me and more to do with her dissatisfaction with Whitman. “I’m sorry if I did something to upset you.”

  Her face softens for a second but then quickly bounces back into place. “It’s not me you should be saying sorry to.” She pauses for a few significant beats. “Call Natalie.”

  Her words send circular shock waves down and around my body. “Natalie?”

  “Yes, Dan,” she says, eyeing me now, emphasizing with icy intonation. “Save your sorries for her.”

  JUNE 6, 2015, SATURDAY, 11:45 P.
M., TEXT

  From: David Friedman

  To: Natalie Fierro

  What the hell are you, some sort of siren? Temptress? A witch? I cannot stop thinking about you or your legs or your goddamn beige Buick. Text back, please. Put me out of my misery.

  OCTOBER 29, 2015, THURSDAY, 7:02 A.M., EMAIL

  From: Jason Paruch

  To: Natalie Fierro

  Hey,

  Can you please stop driving past my house like a fucking stalker? My parents think you’re batshit. Also, I swear to God, if you don’t quit sending cryptic, threatening texts to Taylor, I’m calling the police.

  JP

  MARCH 16, 2016, WEDNESDAY, 4:54 P.M., CHAT

  Arielle_Schulman: I wanna break up.

  TheBenWhitman: No.

  Arielle_Schulman: Fuck you.

  Arielle_Schulman: Fine.

  9

  LOS ANGELES, MAY 11, 2017, THURSDAY, 7:15 P.M.

  Hiya!

  I’m at our fave spot in Laurel Canyon eating a massive bowl of spaghetti aglio e olio. The candles are flickering; the waiters are bustling; the table crayons, Dan, are calling my name. How’s your belly? Rumbling yet? Are you reeling back to that moment when, lit by warm, expensive ambiance, you devoured an entire bowl of tagliolini con tartufo and spent the rest of the night on the pot?

  Poor babe. The pukes! The runs! How humiliating that must’ve been, being THAT wrecked in front of the girl you got busy with! Not that I minded, I liked you that way—vulnerable, a little desperate and needy. I liked being able to provide you with care, comfort, and flat Coke.

  “Nat, wake up.”

  It was three a.m., three weeks into our sex phase, and the sick trolls had just shown up.

  “What’s going on?” I said, half-asleep still, blinking quickly while wiping the drool from my chin. “You okay?”

  “I feel bad, Nat.”

  Your dad was up north, Jessa was on some science retreat, and my parents were in the desert, so we were playing house. “What kind of bad?”

  “Like, stomach bad. I think you should go.”

  “Where?”

  “Home.”

  “What?! No!”

  “Nat, please.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can puke in private?”

  I got up, switched on the bedside lamp, and looked at you. “Can you keep water down?”

  You were flushed and swaying a little. You shook your head.

  I grabbed a glass off the nightstand and beelined for the bathroom. “Can you try, at least?”

  “Don’t go in there!”

  It was a frantic plea, but I ignored it, jiggling the doorknob and pushing my way in. Instantly I was hit by the pungent smell of sick. I recoiled and slammed the door shut. “I’m gonna go root around downstairs for supplies. Where do you keep the meds?”

  “Dad’s bathroom cabinet.” You looked mortified. I grabbed one of your sweatshirts off the floor and slid it over my head. Then I set out in search of provisions.

  Having never had the chance to explore the house alone before, I had to resist the urge to spend hours in your mother’s closet—that walk-in time capsule that your dad kept so pristine. I’d always been really curious about it; I’d seen Jessa rummaging around in there once, trying on rings and pendants, smelling your mom’s old clothes. I’d been intrigued, not being able to conjure up similar feelings of sentimentality about my own mother. Was yours really that glamorous? That kindhearted and loving? I still didn’t know. I’d asked, of course, but you’d always dodged my questions.

  “Was she one of those moms who wore, like, Chanel No. 5 and chandelier earrings?”

  “Huh?”

  “Like a real movie star mom, you know? Or like a beauty queen?”

  “I dunno, Nat. She was very pretty, sure. But she was a nurse.”

  She was the part of you I could never access; the part you protected so fiercely. She was the Other Woman, Dan. One of several, I now know, but your mom—she was the original.

  So I only managed a quick dip in the Closet. I pulled out a dress or two, fingered the silk and the linen, dabbed my wrists with her rose oil and swiped on some lipstick. Then I headed downstairs to put the kettle on.

  Fifteen minutes later I returned with a tray full of crap: Pepto, hot tea, ginger ale, stale saltines, a warm washcloth, a bottle of activated charcoal. You were stretched sideways on the bed, breathing raggedly.

  “Here,” I said, handing you two capsules and the soda.

  “What the hell are these?”

  “Charcoal. They use it in hospitals for drug overdoses.” I’d learned that the hard way after going a little crazy with some oxycodone one time. “It’ll soak up whatever’s making you sick.”

  “You found this in Dad’s cabinet?”

  “Jessa’s. Hippie girls on YouTube use it to whiten their teeth. Come on, swallow.”

  You sat up, took the pills, then fell backward onto the bed. “When I promised you a romantic night, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  “I don’t care,” I said, meaning it, dropping the tray onto your nightstand. “You wanna watch TV?”

  “Okay, but you can totally take Jessa’s bed. Get some sleep?”

  “No. I wanna watch super cheesy infomercials with my boyfriend.”

  You mustered a smile. “Don’t say ‘cheese,’ please.”

  “Right, sorry!” I tossed you the remote and grabbed the hot washcloth. “You want this?”

  “Please.”

  I folded it lengthwise and pressed it to your head. “Good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Too hot?”

  “No, perfect.” You clicked on the TV. “Nat?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thanks for babying me.”

  It was the perfect thank-you—sincere and sad. I wondered if you missed this kind of thing with your mom gone; wondered if your dad ever doted on you, or Jessa; wondered when the last time you truly felt cared for was—was it when She was still around? I wanted to fill that void, Dan; to comfort you, to provide you with those feelings of security and safety. I wanted to love you and baby you and BE your baby and buy you things and screw you and marry you and be your mistress.

  “Are you wearing lipstick?” you asked.

  I wanted to be your everything.

  And for one brief moment, while watching you take chalky shots of Pepto-Bismol, I got to be.

  X, N

  DAN, 11:55 A.M.

  Thinking about that night—picturing Nat pawing my mother’s things while I was upstairs, oblivious, shitting my brains out?—makes me sick. No one could ever, ever, replace my mom, least of all Natalie, with her self-absorption, her erratic moods, her crazy manipulations and stunts—

  “Did she look like you?”

  We only talked about her once in earnest, while walking up Hillhurst looking in shop windows.

  “I mean, no?” I said, passing Nat the ice cream we’d been sharing. My mother had been dead two years at this point, which may seem like a long time but it still felt pretty fresh. “Jessa’s more my mom—the blond hair and the eyes? I’m my dad, I think.”

  “No way,” Nat said, scrunching her nose up. “He’s, like, grumpy looking.”

  “You think my dad’s grumpy?”

  “Looking,” she said with a sigh. “Like, intense, you know? Those eyebrows?” She bit the tip of her spoon. “How’d they meet, anyway?”

  “College party.”

  “So they were practically high school sweethearts, like us.”

  “I mean, give or take four years.”

  She smiled wistfully. “He seems to really miss her.”

  “He does, a lot.”

  “That’s sad though, right?” She dipped her spoon into the chocolate and swirled it around distractedly. “But also, like, kind of beautiful? That he’s still so torn up? Do you think it’s because their love was really that exceptional? Or is his devotion, like, a death thing?”

  I stiffened. “Like a death
thing?”

  “Right. Like how when people die they’re suddenly sainted. Like Carrie Dressman who killed herself my freshman year. No one liked her and then she died, and everyone wept for weeks.”

  “What does that have to do with my mother?”

  “Huh?” Nat snapped to. “Oh, nothing. Well, not nothing I guess. I was just wondering if death makes you better. Like, it seems to kinda wipe the slate clean, you know?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, come on, you do! It’s interesting, right? How it skews people’s perspectives?” She laughed and grabbed me. “God, I should kill myself. I’d be way more popular with the Marlborough crowd.”

  I wanted to punch something—a wall, a tree, a face. “You think my mother couldn’t have possibly been that great?” I pulled away. “That her relationship with my dad wasn’t special? That my memories are, like, delusions?”

  Her eyes got big. “That’s not what I said.” She tried touching my face but I flinched. “I was speaking hypothetically.”

  “You didn’t even know my mother.”

  “I know that.”

  “You’ve never lost anyone.”

  “I know. Hey.” She reached for me. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you or, like, shit all over your mom. I’m sure she was great.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Okay, sorry.”

  I could barely hear her, my head so clouded with rage still. “And what the hell with the suicide joke?”

  She hesitated a second. “Who said I was joking?”

  Suddenly, as if shocked by some shoddy electrical socket, I wanted out. “I’m taking you home,” I said, grabbing her elbow roughly, hanging a right onto Finley.

  “Dan, come on!” She tripped trying to keep up. “I’m not going to do anything about it, obviously. It’s just a thought that comforts me when I feel really bad or anxious.”

  “Dying isn’t romantic.”

  “I didn’t say it was.” She got loose and jogged a few feet ahead of me; flipping around so we were face to face. “I just think—it’s inevitable, right? We’re all gonna die one day, so what’s so wrong with wanting to control the how and the when of it?”