Chapter Thirty-eight
Sean
Back when I was in third grade, we had a dog. Technically, it was Lindsey’s dog, but she named it White Fang and then considered her responsibility complete. The name didn’t stick, so we just called him Dog. I took Dog for walks all the time and fed him scraps under the table.
Dog got sick. On his better days, when he was in better spirits, he could still run around a little. I’d start thinking he might pull through, but then he’d relapse. It went back and forth, and we gradually lost hope, until it was just a matter of time.
Just because it was expected didn’t make it any less painful when Dog passed. It’s a terrible comparison, but sometimes I think Flora and I could make it. When we don’t, I’m not shocked.
But it still hurts like hell.
* * *
The day after the breakup, we finish a basketball game in which we completely crushed the other team. I’ve done my part, scoring better than I have in weeks. As we’re about to leave the gym, Jake slaps a hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He scrunches his nose. “Your head’s not in the game.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Bullshit.” Dylan’s voice is flat. “You’re always tired, but you’re not usually like this. Enough with the emo brooding. What happened?”
I adjust the strap on my bag. Telling them is inevitable, but if I sit with the information a little longer, it feels less real, like I’m stuck in some parallel universe.
“Flora broke up with me,” I say, after a long pause.
They’re bound to make jokes about it, since breakups are so common no one takes them seriously anymore. But then the smirk slips off Dylan’s face and Jake shuts his mouth. After a few seconds Dylan says, “You’ll get back together in two days.”
“No. This is final.”
“But why?” Jake asks.
Good question. I pick the simplest answer. “We’re . . . incompatible.”
“Physically?” Dylan insists it’s a legitimate question. He’s adamant that people split up all the time over this.
“No, not physically. Jesus, Dyl.”
“Financially?” Jake asks.
“Not that either. At least, not entirely. I guess we want different things in life right now.”
Dylan shakes his head. “You helped her study for the SATs, but she just wants someone to party with.”
“No, it’s more complicated.”
So complicated that I’m not sure why it has to happen either. She says I’m too perfect? She loves me but she’s lost? She needs to “work on herself” before she can be with me? Does it sound as absurd out loud as it does in my head?
Jake would probably say, So she dumped you because she loves you and you did nothing wrong? and Dylan would be like, Bro, what? That’s the stupidest breakup I’ve ever heard. I spare them the confusion because it’ll only frustrate me more.
As we walk out of the locker room, I search the parking lot out of habit.
Her silver Mercedes isn’t there, of course. No one’s waiting for me outside.
Jake catches me looking and steers me toward his car. “An era ended! You’ve destroyed my faith in high-school relationships completely.”
Dylan whistles. “You can still bet on Sydney and me.”
Jake glances at him before turning back to me. “You were the one couple I rooted for. I thought you were going to make it.”
“Sorry we didn’t try harder for you.”
Dylan’s less sentimental. “When it’s over, it’s over. You good, man?”
They both look at me like I’m a rabid dog that might bite. I’ve never needed them to comfort me, and I’m not about to start. “I’m fine. Don’t look so concerned.”
Jake studies me, like he’s gauging whether it’s safe to start cracking jokes. Then he tilts his head and spreads his arms. “Come here, bro. I’ll hold you while you cry. I’ll even stroke your hair.”
“I’ll play a sad song on my guitar and light a scented candle,” Dylan adds.
They’re so ridiculous that I laugh, surprising myself. “You guys are idiots.”
Dylan throws an arm around my shoulders. “You love us. Now let’s go. My place. We’ll order pizza—or whatever else Flora wouldn’t let you eat—and run Call of Duty until our eyes bleed.”
We get wasted in Dylan’s basement. Jake invents a drinking game on the fly: take a shot every time we die on-screen or someone mentions a word that starts with f. Dylan tries really hard not to swear, and I avoid bringing her up. I wouldn’t have, even without the rule.
They pester me about brushing up on my German, insisting we need to last more than five seconds in Munich before locals figure out we’re American.
“This summer trip is our chance to blend in,” Dylan declares. “We refuse to embarrass ourselves.”
Jake nods solemnly, then ruins it by slurring, “You’re literally our only shot at international success.”
She isn’t going to be in my life anymore. Neither are Paris or New York.
But I can still look forward to Germany.
It’s not the same, but it’s something.
* * *
“All right, let’s get him up.” Jake’s voice.
Something shifts beneath me. Arms under mine. My legs lifted. My body tilts, dragged upward. Head lolling, too heavy to hold up. My brain is syrup.
A pillow slips under my head. A blanket drapes over me.
“I’ll call his parents, let them know he’s staying over.” A pause.
“Hi, ma’am, this is Jake. Sean fell asleep at Dylan’s. We were hanging out, and we didn’t want to wake him. Would it be all right if he stays over?”
“Hey, Mrs. Foster.” Dylan’s voice.
A pause.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Another pause.
“We’re good,” Jake mutters.
“You staying over too?”
“Yeah. In case he wakes up sobbing in the middle of the night. Can’t leave you to deal with that alone.”
The air mattress hisses as it inflates. Plastic scraping against carpet. Footsteps shuffle, then a heavy sigh.
“This breakup bullshit or what?” Dylan.
“Total bullshit.” Jake. A beat of silence. “I don’t know what more she could want from him.”
The hum of the mini fridge fills the silence.
The last thing I feel is warmth. The weight of a blanket. The steady rise and fall of my own breathing.
Sleep pulls me under again.
* * *
Lindsey sticks a Post-it Note on my door every day. They’re quotes about heartbreak, her way of telling me that I’m not alone. She also writes these ten-years-later stories, in which I’m happy and successful, living my best life.
It’s not going to take me ten years to be okay, right?
“It’s fine to be upset, you know.” She plops down on my bed. “You talk like you’re holding a press conference. Come on, vent away.”
“There’s nothing to vent about.”
“It’d be easier if there was someone to blame, right?”
There’s a reason people hate their exes. It’s a defense mechanism, because getting over someone not at fault is so much harder. I picked a wonderful person as my first love, which is both the best and worst thing about my situation.
Flora wants to stay friends, and I try to keep that promise, just not in the way she imagines. I smile at her, make small talk at my locker, keep things easy for our friends. I never say a bad word about her. But I delete all her texts and stop responding to new ones. They’re meaningless now.
After high school is over, I’ll never contact her again.
Only a few months left to go.
* * *
The aftermath of a breakup isn’t dramatic. It’s slow, repetitive, and quite frankly, boring. Mourning is boring, so I do it alone.
I pretend to be as excited about the trip itinerary as Dylan and Jake are.
I collect Lindsey’s notes from my door and add them to the growing pile, not forgetting to reply with a smiley face.
I listen to the playlists Josie carefully curates for me.
I lay down a perfect report card in front of my parents, assuring them my grades aren’t suffering, and neither am I.
But in the quiet moments when I’m alone, I mourn.
I miss her when I drive to school, stopping at the intersection, wondering if she remembers to flick the blinker.
I miss her when I go to the movies and accidentally order caramel-flavored popcorn.
I miss her in the early mornings, when the world is hushed and empty.
I miss her when I shower, watching the water drops trickle down the drain after I turn off the shower.
I miss her before I fall asleep, staring at the ceiling, fighting back silent tears, as I ask oblivion,
Dear Flora, how are you?