How To Get Your Heart Broken
Read How To Get Your Heart Broken Online
Authors: Rose Fall
HOW TO GET YOUR HEART BROKEN
By
Rose Fall
Copyright © 2016 Rose Fall
Print Edition:
ISBN-13:
978-1523457083
ISBN-10:
1523457082
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or
distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not
participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the
author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Cover design © Hilda at Dalliance Designs
I
n memory of Ms. Winkler, for sending us
postcards from Ireland, for taking us to poetry readings, and for reading my
horrendous first attempt at novel writing. I really hope this book doesn’t suck
as much as that one did.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Every Good Story Starts With a Broken Heart
May the Odds Be Ever in Your Favor
Some things, We Don’t Talk About
Sometimes the
Understudy Steals the Show
Ok, So Maybe I
Think You’re Kinda Hot
Most Secrets
Come Out In the Worst Ways
Your Lips Are Moving But I Don’t Hear Shit
I Don’t Want to Be Your Sugar, Sugar
We’re Like, Really Good at Playing Pretend
Some People are So Good at Lying to Themselves
The Truth Always Comes Out Eventually
Every Good Story
Starts With a Broken Heart
Ryan Steidman is the sort of guy everybody loves. He's
charming, smart, confident, and absolutely gorgeous. He's also mine. I mean,
was
. We were together for two years. I'd
known and loved him for half of my life. My mother loved him more than she
loved me. You think you know a guy you've spent half of your life with, but
life has a funny way of proving you wrong. Allow me to explain.
It was the night of
our high school graduation. This was the first time in months that my parents
were within 50 feet of each other without the presence of a mediator. I was
smart enough to know it wouldn’t last, and I was dying to ditch my little
graduation party before another epic brawl began.
I'd waited nineteen
years for that day. My declaration of independence had been delivered in the
form of a high school diploma and I was finally free of my family. It was the
best day of my life. What made it better was that I wouldn’t be spending
another torturous summer with my mother, suffering through all of her ill-fated
attempts at bonding as I desperately tried to maintain my sanity. No, I was
determined to make more of this summer which was why I was going to be spending
it at the beach with Ryan, and my two best friends, Rachel and Ashton.
We had every intention
of making this the best summer of our lives, as we were all too aware of the
responsibilities accompanying our impending adulthood. We were all going to
different schools next year, taking on very different paths and, for me, this
summer bought on as much fear as it did excitement. “Always the pessimist,”
Ryan would have said. So, even though I was haunted by the reality of our
inevitable separation, I focused on trying to make the best of the time we had
.
I still had a glorious 75 days of summer to spend with the people that
meant the most to me.
“…Personally, I think
that is why a lot of people don’t respect theater majors. But it’s just a
misconception that there no jobs in the field-”
“Did you hear that?” I
asked with wide eyes.
Mr. McKay stared back
at me in confusion.
“I think my mother’s
calling me. I’ve gotta run. Good talking to you.” I smiled tightly. I barely
bothered to get the lie out of my mouth before rushing away.
Our neighbor Mr. McKay
had always insisted that Drama really was the most useful college major no
matter what field anyone wanted to go into. This wasn’t the first time he’d
expressed his unpopular views on the subject, but I suppose he suspected time
was running out to convince me.
I knew he’d try to
corner me again if given the opportunity, so I quickly headed upstairs to look
for Ryan, politely nodding at all the strangers on the way. My mother had
insisted on throwing this party for me and thank goodness she'd prepared me for
all the disappointment I would have to face at her hands from an early age. It
was no surprise that half the party guests were people I’d never seen before in
my life. Some I knew but hated.
But I knew this party
wasn’t really about me. It was my mother’s opportunity to show off the
renovations she’d made to the house, to promote this image she had of living a
glamorous life. The truth was we weren’t rich. We used to be, but that was
mostly because of my dad. After my parent’s divorce, my mother had managed to
walk away with almost half of what he owned. But she spent too long living
above her means. We’d had to move to a house that was almost half the size of
our old one two years ago and since then she’d been trying hard to get this one
to
the same standard.
Mother made a decent amount as a real estate
agent, but not enough to support the lavish lifestyle she clung onto. I knew
this was always on her mind; it fed the insecurity that inspired extravagant
parties like this.
I found it difficult to
empathize with her concern. When I was younger, I used to wish that we could be
poor. As a corporate lawyer, my dad made a great deal of money.
We were never lacking in material things.
But, he seemed to think that as long as we had all the things we needed we
didn’t need him. So, I wanted to be poor.
I didn’t hope for poverty
anymore. I had long since given up hope of mending my relationship with either
of my parents. But young Eli had left an impression, and even today I had a
strange aversion to wealth and extravagance. So, I wanted nothing to do with
this party.
It sort of seemed
appropriate that Rachel and Ashton weren’t here. I learned too late my mother
hadn't even invited them. She wasn’t fond of Rachel ‒which she’d made
clear numerous times without my asking‒ and apparently she hadn’t
realized Ashton and I were still friends.
Of course they still
could have come but
no
, they didn’t
really want to see my parents. In truth Ash preferred to stay at home curled up
with a book and Rachel wanted to go to a “real party.” Ryan was the only one
willing to face my mother’s wrath for me. Not that he had to worry.
It was time for us to
ditch the cocktail party, and make our way to Rachel’s idea of a celebration.
Besides, from the way I saw my mother glaring at my father from across the
living room‒he was currently flirting with Mr. Lancaster’s new
wife‒ I predicted it would only be a few more minutes before they
exhausted their attempts at civility. It was just enough time for Ryan and me
to make a run for it. By the time they started trying to murder each other, we
would be gone.
"Lauren!" I
yelled as I spotted her upstairs, she turned towards me, waving eagerly.
Normally she'd be the
bratty little sister, but since she'd been living with dad and hadn’t seen me
in months, the snide comments I’d gotten accustomed to when she hit the double
digits were absent for the day.
"Have you seen
Ryan?" I asked, smiling as she walked towards me and grabbed my hand.
"I saw him go
into your room," she responded.
“Thanks," I said,
still shocked that I hadn’t gotten a smart-ass comment as a reply.
“Sure," she said,
quickly patting my head. She was only twelve and already she was as tall as me.
Not that I’m 5’11 or anything.
Not 5’11
. That’s as
close as anyone will ever get to knowing my true height.
Lauren’s and my height
remained the only thing we had in common. With her straight, light brown hair
and grey-blue eyes she was the spitting image of my mother, a fact that meant
people always assumed one of us was adopted when they learned we were sisters.
Her pale skin left no evidence of our Hispanic heritage while I, being my
father’s daughter, possessed the sun-kissed skin which left some of my more
ignorant classmates believing I lived in a tanning bed year round. I had the
same wavy and unmanageable hair (except on days like today when it’d been
scared straight by an extensive and intricate process of blow drying and
straightening), and, when left unsupervised I had the misfortune of possessing
the same thick, dark eyebrows as my father.
I made a beeline for
my room; taking off the six-inch devices of torture my mother had subjected me
to wearing. Her life was consumed by all things appearance related. At times I
wondered if this was why she’d married my father. “He looks just like Antonio Banderas!”
her country club friends would say in a tone which made me certain that if he
were black, they would think he looked just like Denzel Washington.
I flung my room door
open to find Ryan,
my
Ryan under the
covers of my bed...with Nikki. Nikki Sulivan. She fit into the category of
people at the party that I hated. Even before that incident. What really
surprised me was Ryan’s audacity. That he simply couldn’t have waited until he
wasn’t in my house, or to have done it in the bathroom so as to spare me the
inconvenience of having to burn my entire bed.
That scene, now burned
into my head, was impossible to accept. But sadly, it was the sort of thing I
expected. If there had been signs that Ryan was cheating on me before this
point, I certainly hadn’t seen them. But somehow it seemed natural that one of
the greatest days of my life would be ruined by the only boy I’ve ever loved.
It was just the way things went for me. Call me cynical, or damaged, or maybe
psychic, but the scene before me did not surprise me for a
second. I’m not saying it didn’t make me furious though.
“Get out," I said
quietly. My voice shook. I hoped he didn’t think it was because I was going to
cry.
Nikki gladly took my
command as her cue to leave, but Ryan didn’t seem to get the hint.
"Elle I'm so
sorry…"
Was this one request
too much to ask for? My blood boiled in anticipation of his pathetic apology.
I tightened my grip
around one of the heels I was holding and aimed for Ryan’s head, my rage
intensifying when I missed.
"I don’t want to
hear anything you have to say! Get out!"
He mumbled something
about me calming down before trying to grab his clothes. That was probably what
really set me off. He wanted me to
calm down
.
The way I reacted
after this made complete sense to me. Still, I was shocked at my own anger. It
seemed I’d tried to burden him with all of the hurt he had caused me, transfer
it on so
my heart wasn’t plagued with the permanent damage his
betrayal had caused.
Ryan spent a very long night in the ER after that
confrontation. Unfortunately, I realized too late no physical pain I could
cause him would ever add up to the permanent scars he’d left me. The worst part
was none of it changed the way I felt about him, not like I thought it would.
Either way, I’d promised Rachel I would stop thinking about it. Not that she
could monitor my thoughts.
My mind slowly reentered the present as I heard her burst
through the brilliantly blue front door of the beach house.
I’d been obsessively replaying that night the whole way
to the beach house, and I was breaking my promise that I’d leaving
him
at the door.
"Elle!” She yelled, "I have something that will
make you stop thinking about him!"
"I wasn't thinking about him," I said
defensively. She sent me her trademark, don’t-bullshit-me-look.
“Just like how you weren’t thinking about him when you
had a quarter-life crisis and dyed your hair that unnatural shade of red?”
As if there was a
shade of red that would have looked “natural” on me
, I thought. I glanced
down at my hair, the beet red color that had been the final product of hours
locked in my bathroom with a do-it-yourself hair dyeing kit was a drastic
change from my natural hair color, but it had actually started to grow on me.
Besides, red matched my mood.
"Come here! You too, Ashton!” She yelled excitedly,
ushering me away from the kitchen window. I snorted at the sound of Ash’s
dramatic groan.
"Follow me!" Rachel chirped in an annoyingly
chipper voice.
Ashton and I exchanged a look of dread as she led us to
the living room. I was utterly disappointed that whatever was supposed to be
making me feel better wasn’t chocolate.
Rachel ignored our complaints. She was too busy gazing
through the glass doors, past which some guy, presumably our neighbor, stood on
the porch next door. He was shirtless, squinting into the sun as it glinted off
his toned abs in a way that suggested he’d spent at least half his life in a
gym. Ryan had spent most of his life in a gym. I hated our neighbor
already.
He turned his head to nod in our direction, and then
winked as if he’d mistaken my unimpressed gaze for interest before heading back
inside.
Rachel let the curtains fall,
indicating the much anticipated end of an uneventful show, and turned towards
us. I raised an eyebrow, wondering what our cocky neighbor, otherwise known as
Rachel’s next conquest, had to do with me. Ash shook her head, probably
noticing the way Rachel had looked at him.
“Wouldn’t you like to get dessert served on that
platter?” She grinned.
‘Not even if it were
tiramisu,’
I thought as Ash deadpanned, “That’s not very
hygienic.”
"We all know he's hot, right?" Rachel asked,
ignoring our less than enthusiastic attitudes.
We waited.
"Right," she persisted. I stared blankly.
She smiled liked she’d just invented Viagra. "I know
the
perfect
way to help you get revenge.”
