16 Ways to Break a Heart Read online

  “So you wanna kill yourself?”

  She laughed. “Not currently, no.”

  “But you’ve thought about it.”

  “I have, yeah.” She said this casually, as if she’d just said instead, I’ll take another wine spritzer with lime. “But not, like, seriously or anything.”

  We’d reached the car and I was fumbling now, trying to find my keys.

  “Are you hearing me?” she asked, slipping a hand around my waist and under my shirt; shocking my skin with cold fingers. “Things are good right now. We’re good. You make me happy, Dan.”

  “I can’t be your savior.”

  “But you are, you’re my hero.”

  “But I don’t want to be.”

  She pulled away—“Jesus Christ, way to wreck a moment”—walked to the passenger side, then tugged futilely, repeatedly, on the door handle. “Can you let me in?”

  I regretted the savior thing instantly. “Look—”

  “Can you let me in?” she said again.

  “Yeah,” I whispered feebly. I turned the key and the lock popped.

  AUGUST 18, 2016, THURSDAY, 6:46 A.M., EMAIL

  From: Ruth Schwarzbein

  To: Dan Jacobson; Jessa Jacobson

  Guys, see attached. It’s your mom and me in our early twenties in the old complex in North Beach. Photo was taken right after a party we threw in celebration of Bastille Day—Joyeux Quatorze Juillet! Ridiculous. I was a complete Francophile then.

  Notice the smoke wafting from your mother’s hand—that’s a joint, not a cigarette! Such rebellion. Don’t do drugs, kids!

  Love,

  Auntie Ruthie

  AUGUST 18, 2016, THURSDAY, 11:35 A.M., EMAIL

  From: Paul Jacobson

  To: Dan Jacobson

  I’m letting Jessa choose the restaurant this year, you okay with that? She wants Vietnamese, bánh mì specifically, she seems to think it’s something Mom would’ve been into.

  Can I trust you with the cake? Bring two packs of birthday candles, she would’ve been forty-eight this year.

  —Dad

  AUGUST 18, 2016, THURSDAY, 12:54 P.M., TEXT

  From: Jessa Jacobson

  To: Dan Jacobson

  That jacket you wore out today is hideous. Mom would’ve hated it. Where’d you get that thing? Natalie? Why do all rich girls love ugly clothes?

  10

  THE DESERT, MAY 12, 2017, FRIDAY, 3:25 P.M.

  Hey,

  So I’m in Joshua Tree at my parents’ cabin, where you and I spent our one and only weekend away together. Remember the fun we had here? Guzzling wine by the fire pit? Screwing against cold adobe walls? Watching tumbleweeds somersault across dusty, barren landscapes? It was the best, Dan—the freezing nights and blazing days, the 24-7 lovefest. It was the best until—you guessed it—it was the absolute worst.

  “Aya-what?”

  “Ayahuasca,” I said, stretching the word this time. We were camped out on the scratchy turquoise rug, late-day sun hitting us sideways while we ate from a crate of clementines. “My mother hosts these druggie ceremonies where she and her friends drink ayahuasca in the tepee out back and then hallucinate for hours while this shaman leads them all to spiritual enlightenment.”

  “You’re messing with me.”

  “Hand to God I’m not.”

  You ate an orange slice then leaned in for a citrus-scented kiss. “Are we going out later? Pappy and Harriet’s, maybe?”

  “Yes, please!” I’d been waiting years to take a date to my favorite desert saloon. “I brought the perfect dress for the occasion. Wanna see?”

  Your cell dinged. I grabbed the phone and scanned the text preview. “It’s Ruby,” I said, deflating. “‘SOS.’”

  “Her mom’s having thyroid surgery and she’s freaking out,” you said, dialing back already. “Put the dress on, okay?” You headed outside to the deck. “I’ll only be one sec.”

  You took twelve minutes, I counted. I watched you through the sliding glass doors; watched you be the good guy that you are; watched your face pucker and contort in familiar ways. You were just being you, of course—inquisitive, caring, attentive—only now you were being you with HER.

  “She okay?” I asked afterward, even though I couldn’t have cared less if she was okay. I was standing barefoot on the scratchy rug in my spaghetti strap dress, dying for you to see me.

  “You look phenomenal,” you said regretfully, sans smile. Your lips were hard and horizontal and—“Nat.”

  I shook my head and shook my head but—

  “Nat, I’m so sorry. Her mom had a bad reaction to the anesthesia and now she’s on machines and shit and Ruby’s losing her mind and—”

  “Is she dying?”

  “No! No, she’s okay, but she’s all screwed up on drugs and babbling and—”

  “Then you’re not leaving.”

  “I have to.”

  “No you don’t. We can go back early tomorrow, but—” I grabbed the car keys off the dining room table and clutched them tightly. “Pappy and Harriet’s, remember?”

  “She’s hysterical.”

  “So what?”

  “So WHAT?” Your face went all flat like a deflated balloon.

  “Yeah, she’s gonna live, right? So what’s the rush?”

  Now you were pissed, your tiny eyes shrinking and shining. “What if it were your mom, huh?”

  “If it were my mom, that’d be different,” I said. “But it’s not my mom, Dan, it’s Ruby’s, and she’s not your girlfriend.”

  “I’ve known her a hell of a lot longer than I’ve known you. That’s gotta count for something.”

  Well you might as well have slapped me.

  “Fuck off,” I said, throwing the keys on the floor then beelining for the bedroom. “Go be her knight in shining armor then.” I scratched at my straps and let the dress fall to my feet.

  “You’re being a baby.”

  “I am a baby, asshole!” I was naked now, quivering in my underwear, rageful and near tears. “Fucking GO already.”

  “Natalie.”

  “Go!”

  “There’s one car,” you said, eyebrows bouncing. “What’re you gonna do? Stay here until you run out of oranges?”

  Something inside me cracked. I dropped to the floor, sobbing. “I hate her so much.”

  You crouched down and rubbed my bare back. “She was there for me, Nat.” I could barely see you through the fog of my tears. “When my mom was sick,” you said, softening, “she was there.”

  Well screw me.

  Ruby Lefèvre may be a bland girl made of bland things—vanilla soft serve and saltine crackers and plain spaghetti—but shit, Dan, she sure has your heart. “Fine,” I said, feeling horrible but accepting defeat. “Ruby wins again.” I wiped my wet cheeks, grabbed a T-shirt off the ground, and stood up.

  “It’s not a competition, Nat.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. And I don’t think you were either.

  Ms. Lefèvre lived, of course—they switched her anesthetic and then successfully yanked out her thyroid. Ruby, you told me, cried nonstop until the surgery was over. Sobbing on your shoulder, no doubt. Clinging to you like Saran Wrap. Riding that wavy line between friend-in-need and oh-just-fuck-me-already.

  I have never, EVER trusted that girl, Dan.

  You, I trusted.

  Huge mistake.

  Nat

  DAN, 12:30 P.M.

  Well shit, she knows.

  I’m surprised it took her this long to say it. That’s either some insane herculean restraint, or she’s got this number choreographed and timed to the minute. Wonder what comes next. Public torture? My crucifixion?

  To be clear, nothing happened with Ruby that weekend. Nat and I drove back to LA in a silent cloud of misery, and then I went straight to the hospital.

  “I wrecked your big trip,” Ruby said, weaving through the waiting area; looking teary and red-nosed in a ratty T-shirt and baggy jeans. “Is she pissed?”


  “Livid,” I said, closing the distance between us; smiling then pulling her into a too-tight embrace. “How’s your mom?”

  “She couldn’t stop puking this morning. Now they’ve got her on saline and anti-nausea meds. Seems to be helping.”

  “What about you, have you eaten?”

  “I’ve been watching her barf all day.”

  “Right. Coffee maybe? Tea?” I rubbed her icy hands. “You’re freezing.”

  “Think I need something a little stronger than tea.”

  “Whiskey shooter?”

  “Morphine drip.”

  “Well, Lefèvre,” I slipped an arm around her shoulders and walked her toward the elevators, “you’ve come to the right place.”

  “I miss your mom,” Ruby said not too long after that. We were sitting on a manicured plot of grass in the hospital courtyard, clutching hot, disposable cups. “She made the best snacks.”

  “Peanut butter crackers.”

  “Chocolate chip oatmeal cookies.”

  “Tahini dip.”

  “Fried artichokes.”

  “I miss her too,” I said, digging a hand into the dirt; uprooting a lone weed with my middle finger. “But yours is gonna be fine.”

  “I know,” she said, smiling for several seconds before losing her shit completely; folding forward, heaving deeply into shaky hands.

  “Ruby, it’s okay.”

  “How does somebody who lives on broccoli and pearled barley get thyroid cancer?”

  “I don’t think we have the kind of control that we think we do.”

  “That’s terrifying.”

  “Or liberating.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wincing a little, her voice tinged with guilt. “I didn’t mean to suggest that your mom—that she did something wrong and that that’s why she got sick.”

  “I knew what you meant.” I grabbed her hand and squeezed reassuringly.

  “I don’t understand how you do it,” she said, smiling sadly, squeezing back. “This feeling, Dan, it’s like suffocating. I feel like”—another tear blast—“like if she dies, I’ll die.”

  “She’s not gonna die,” I said, touching her chin then tilting her face up. “Listen to me. She’s not dying. Something scary happened, but it’s being fixed.”

  I said this, but could I really be certain? After all, promises had been made to me when my mom was sick too.

  “You’re sure?” she asked, blinking back tears, lashes batting like insect wings.

  “I mean, can I guarantee you that your mom won’t be out running errands next month and get hit by a bus? No. But do I think she’ll survive a little thyroid cancer? Ruby, yes.”

  She fell forward in relief, her head whapping my chest. “You and your mom—you were all I could think about all morning long.”

  I stroked her hair, my fingers catching in her tangled curls.

  “You must miss her so much.”

  “I do.”

  I missed school-supply shopping and long drives and trips to the orthodontist and Sunday bakeoffs and mornings with bagels and lox and shitty coffee, and I missed—

  “I miss just, like, smelling her, you know?”

  “Man, yes, she smelled great, didn’t she? Like flowers but fresh ones.” Ruby’s fingers made whisper-light figure eights on my forearm.

  DAN, 12:44 P.M.

  “Hey!”

  It’s Ruby in real time looking flushed and frazzled. Ruby, who I’ve been avoiding now for nearly six weeks.

  “I texted earlier,” she says, and I’m instantly babbling defensive nonsense like—

  “Today’s been crazy, and I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you but—”

  “No, Dan, look.” She slams a starched, ragged piece of canvas against my locker, the surface covered with colorful scraps of construction paper—tiny faces all arranged to make one larger face. One that looks exactly like Ruby. “Is that . . . ?”

  “A Fierro original?” She drops the collage into my lap. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say yes.”

  The eyes have been blacked out with jagged strips of inky silk. The mouth is open and screaming; a dark cave brightened only by a snake tongue made up of hundreds of miniscule red, broken hearts. It’s long and cruel looking and forks at the tip; its ends slithering up the sides of the portrait like bitter, vindictive serpents.

  “Wow.”

  “I mean, what the hell is this?” she says. “A threat?”

  It’s for sure a threat. “I mean, maybe?”

  “I’m guessing she knows, then?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  She drops her backpack and slumps down next to me. “Are you guys still in contact?”

  I consider telling her about the letters but stop myself. No use throwing gasoline on a wildfire. “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?”

  “Can we not talk about this right now?” Nat, Ruby, Ari—it’s all just too much. “I have Ryan’s graduation at five today, and I need to stay focused.”

  “Should I set something up with your assistant for later this week, Werner Herzog?”

  “I just need a break.”

  “From what? From me?”

  “I just—” What’s my excuse? I’ve been an avoidant, cowardly asshole for weeks. “I’ve just been overwhelmed with the Nat situation and with school and with—”

  “Right, I know, your film. Jesus Christ, you’re insufferable.” She stands quickly, stepping on the collage. “Sorry to bother you with my bullshit feelings of loss and abandonment. Tell your crazy ex to stop sending me creepy threats.”

  I feel the hot flush of shame and shoot up. “Ruby, wait.” She isn’t waiting; she’s tearing down the hallway, her book bag bouncing off her round hip. “Ruby!” I chase after her, catching up.

  “What?” she says, whipping around, irate. “Now you wanna talk?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  “For which part?”

  “For avoiding you after we . . .” I can’t say it. I’m too chickenshit.

  “After we what, Dan?”

  “Ruby, please, every time I see you I see her in my head and I—”

  “Stop talking about Natalie!” she screams, her voice thick and breaking. “My God, you’re not even with her anymore and you’re still obsessing!”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, and this time it’s with real remorse.

  “She’s still in your head, like, manipulating you.”

  “That’s not it.” That’s exactly it though, isn’t it?

  “I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” Ruby says, bottom lip trembling.

  “Rubes.” My heart hurts. A hulking kid with a massive gym bag rams right into her and she barely flinches. I feel like scum. Like coffee dregs. I’m tired and pissed at myself and pissed that I’ve lost everyone that matters: my mom, Nat, now Ruby. “I miss you,” I whisper, and I feel guilty saying it, like somehow admitting that I need Ruby makes me this bad, shitty guy.

  “So have me,” she says, and she’s wide open—eyes big with big tears and big need. I swear I can see inside her soul and it’s breathtaking but fucking frightening, and I’m suffocating under the pressure of all her intensity and heartache. I cannot handle this version of Ruby. The crying Ruby, the desperate Ruby, the Ruby that pines and pleads and makes me feel like an indecisive prick. I don’t like that she can tell me with one pained glance that I’m spineless and cowardly and selfish and horny and that I’m the kind of guy who nearly screws a girl he loves a lot but who he has no intention of dating. She reminds me that I’m that guy. The guy I hate. The guy I never set out to be.

  “I want to be with you,” she blurts, eyes flitting sideways and up.

  I never should’ve started this. “I can’t be your boyfriend, Ruby.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because that’s not who we are, you and me. We’re not like that.” I smile even though I feel fucking awful. “We’re friends.”

  Ruby’s jaw tenses. She sm
ooths her curls with one hand and takes a step back. “I don’t get naked with my friends, Dan.”

  “Right.”

  “I didn’t think you did either.”

  She’s not crying anymore. She’s rigid and stoic, and suddenly something’s shifted. The air around us feels icy and dry. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing, casting an extra-blue hue on Ruby’s face.

  “I wrecked us, didn’t I?” I say quietly.

  Ruby just stands there for a minute, blinking. “You obliterated us,” she says back before turning and walking away.

  JANUARY 15, 2013, TUESDAY, 3:41 P.M., TEXT

  From: Mom

  To: Dan

  Baby boy, be out front at 4:00 sharp, okay? Is Ruby with you? I’ve got Gram’s wedding ring in the glove compartment waiting to go for whenever you’ve worked up the courage to propose.

  JANUARY 10, 2017, TUESDAY, 11:18 P.M., CHAT

  Audra_Rey: Pretty sure something significant just happened with my future husband.

  M_Haney: He said ILY?

  Audra_Rey: Close. I was at Jessa’s earlier helping her shoot a Q&A for her channel, and when I went upstairs to use the bathroom he brushed past me and totally eye-fucked me and winked and went, “Cute dress, Rey.”

  M_Haney: Shut up.

  Audra_Rey: I know!

  M_Haney: WHAT WERE YOU WEARING, REY?

  Audra_Rey: A CUTE FUCKING DRESS, HANEY!

  M_Haney: Is he still with Natalie?

  Audra_Rey: According to Jessa, yes, but she says he’s miserable. What’s that shit called when you derive pleasure from other people’s pain?

  M_Haney: Schadenfreude.

  Audra_Rey: I think I have that. Am I a terrible person, hoping they break up?

  M_Haney: Maybe?

  M_Haney: God I hope they implode.

  Audra_Rey: Me too. Schadenfreude. That’s a good word.

  M_Haney: I know. Everything sounds better in German.

  11

  LOS ANGELES, MAY 13, 2017, SATURDAY, 10:40 A.M.

  Hola, Novio!

  I’m in the hills behind the Hollywood sign, reliving the hike that wrecked all hikes for me: Griffith Park, way west of Ferndale—steep trails, panoramic views, succulents, horse shit, wildflowers, dogs off leashes—just being here makes me want to bash my head against a brick. I used to love this place, Dan. Like really, truly love it. Now it makes me nauseated and sad—two hallmarks of devastating heartbreak, I guess.