Prologue
How do you fix a broken heart? If you ask Google, it’s going to give you a list of dos and don’ts such as: avoid contact, get rid of personal objects and mementos, find a new source of happiness. If you ask my best friends, they’ll tell you to get absolutely plastered and hook up with his friends. So, it’s different for everyone, I think. There is no right or wrong way to heal. I myself have a different approach. When someone breaks my heart, I get out my journal and a bottle of wine and I write him a eulogy.
I know how that sounds—weird, creepy, unhinged, all of the above—but it’s not like anyone sees it but me. It’s my closure and my therapy, because if you break my heart then you are dead to me. Fictionally. So imagine my surprise when all the boys who broke my heart started dying.
Literally.
Chapter 1
August
It’s the start of my senior year at Pembroke College—a new beginning. If my life were a Netflix limited series, this would be the first episode. I can picture it as the scene opens to a small apartment bathroom. The lights are off, but the midday sun shines through the windows, illuminating the space just enough to see my hand pop into the frame, like a zombie breaking free of graveyard dirt. I grab on to the sink, hoisting myself up off the ground. The camera zooms in as I look up into the mirror at the mess staring back at me. I pull what looks like a straw wrapper from my tangled hair. My shirt from last night is half off. One fake eyelash still on, the other glued to my cheek. I sigh at my appearance and stumble from the bathroom, but the camera is still focused on that spot, and the title of the show appears on the screen in my absence, in big, bold letters. I wonder what it would say. Maybe something like “Hot Mess,” or “Redeemable?” with a question mark that slaps onto the end of the word at the last second. The audience wouldwonder how I got here. They would form their initial opinions of this character in front of them, and they might not like me.
Right now I don’t even like me.
I pull myself from my thoughts as I tiptoe across the hall of the two-bedroom off-campus apartment, squinting against the offensive morning light, and I peek in at my bed, wanting it to be empty.
Short, light brown hair is lying atop the pillow next to mine. Slow, deep breaths rise and fall under my comforter. Shit. I step into my room, over jeans and shirts, the clothes from last night tossed about in a hurry. I can barely even remember if we... I let the thought trail off unfinished, unwanted as I pick up the black leather wallet on my nightstand and open it up. Nick Crane, age twenty-one, six two, brown hair, blue eyes, from Boston. Hm. Not bad. I study the ID a moment longer when he begins to stir, turning toward me. I quickly shut the wallet and set it down as he opens his eyes groggily and smiles up at me.
“Hey,” he says.
He’s cute, and I’m wondering how I’ve never seen him around before, considering we’re the same age. Pembroke is a big school, but it’s not that big. And by the time you’re a senior, you either know or at least recognize just about everyone in your year. His lazy grin makes my stomach feel sour when I remember that I don’t remember how we got here.
“Hate to do this to you but I have to go to work, so I need you to leave.”
I don’t really have to work today; in fact I specifically requested off for this whole weekend, but it’s nicer than just telling him to getout for no reason. I start rummaging around my dresser, pulling out what I would wear to work if I was really going. The first weekend of the semester, also known as Welcome Weekend, is usually a three-day, nonstop party. Everyone is back from the summer, all tan and glowing, and the weather is still warm. Every house has people drinking on the lawn, every bar is packed full. I bet my friends are already up and out again, wondering where I am.
His smile fades as he looks around, then props himself up on his elbows. “What time is it?”
“Like two in the afternoon.”
“Damn.” He sits up fully now. “Do you want to grab some lunch before you go? Or even just a coffee?”
I find in these situations it’s best to just be curt. “No.”
The last thing I want to do is nurse a hangover in broad daylight with someone whose ID I had to check five minutes ago, like I’m the bouncer of my own bedroom.
“Oh, okay.” He gathers his clothes from my floor and starts to put on his jeans from last night. “Well, maybe we could grab a drink sometime?”
He stands up, his white T-shirt still in his hand. I imagine us casually getting a drink together. He would have to remind me of his name, I would have more than one drink, and we would wake up here again.
“Maybe,” I say, but I don’t mean it.
I walk him to the door, stepping over the clutter of boxes I still have to unpack that are scattered throughout the small space. I trip over a box overflowing with the same books I bring to school every year, cursing to myself when my shin collides with thecorner ofLittleWomen, sending the stack toppling over. I give a silent apology to Louisa May Alcott and the March sisters as the hardcover hits the ground. He turns at the noise, and I lean casually on the kitchen counter, pretending I didn’t just fall into it. I watch his eyes drift over to the empty wine bottles and take-out containers. Knowing I have to get all this cleaned up before my cousin Adrienne moves in tomorrow makes my head throb. I wrap my arms around myself, counting the slow, nauseating seconds until I can lie back down.
He steps out of my apartment onto the wooden platform before the stairs. “Can I have your number at least?” The look on his face almost makes me give it to him out of pity.
Almost.
“No, goodbye, Nate, it was fun.”
“It’s Nick—”
“Okay, bye-bye, now.” I shut the door without another word.
I pull my curtains closed and get into bed. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed in myself for falling back into this pattern so easily. Senior year was supposed to be different; I was supposed to have it under control, but here I am struggling to put together my memories of last night like an old puzzle that’s missing pieces.
When I finally pick up my phone, I find that I have fifteen missed calls from my mom and younger sister, Claire. We are not the type of family that talks daily—sometimes I don’t even speak to my mom weekly. They were just here on Thursday moving me into this apartment with my stepdad, Don, and youngest sister, Sofie, so what could they possibly need me for not even a full two days later? Dread forms in the pit of my stomach as I think maybe I did something last night that would warrant these calls. I quicklygo through my messages and my profiles, covering all bases before replying to them.
