“I can’t make you believe me,” I say with a voice that is surprisingly even. “I don’t want to.”
That makes him look at me. Really look at me. The first sign of hesitation flashes in his eyes.
“In fact, if you can’t even listen to me try to explain what’s happened over the past day, then we never had one iota of what you claimed we had.”
His eyes soften.
“You said a lot of things to me, too, Declan. And I remember every one of them. And you know what I’m remembering most of all?”
He just stares at me.
“When we were kissing at the restaurant that first night, you said: He has no power over you. He discarded you. Don’t give him that power back. You are worth so much more.”
Declan’s turn to look like he’s been slapped.
My own eyes narrow into tight bands as I take my time, letting his own words thrown back at him sink in. His jaw grinds but he says nothing, though his eyes are so conflicted.
“You know what? I am worth so much more. You don’t want to hear me out? Too bad. Coffee offer rescinded. Deal off and over. Everything’s off the table. Good day, Declan. Have a nice life.”
“Shannon,” he says as if making an involuntary sound. It’s not a groan or a growl or even a question. Just a statement.
“I’m either authentic and real or I’m fake and cunning. I’m one or the other. You don’t even get to choose anymore, Declan. You took that choice away from yourself.”
I turn on my heel to leave, and then casually throw my final words over my shoulder.
“You can’t have both.”
“I don’t want both. I want the real Shannon. And since you don’t know who that is…”
A tingling red ball of rage takes over. Steve dumped me because I wouldn’t turn myself into a pretzel and stop being myself. Declan insists that the “real” me, whatever that is, isn’t enough either. I can’t win.
So I’m done playing.
“You know what, Declan?”
Silence from him. Just that cold, green resolve in eyes that used to smile on me.
“Go validate yourself.” It takes everything in me not to give him the bird as I walk away.
Chapter Three
“This is the part where I’m supposed to say he’s an ass**le and she’s so much better off without him,” Amy whispers to Amanda as I go through my seventh tissue in five minutes, “but I can’t honestly say that.”
I am on my bed, wearing an old pair of velour pants that I think my grandma left at Mom’s house before she died. My torn pink shirt—the same one I wore the day I met Declan—is technically on my body, but I’ve been wearing it for three days straight now. It could animate of its own accord and walk away. Can bacteria become sentient? If so, my shirt has become a form of artificial intelligence.
And I smell like bacon and cookie dough. Don’t ask.
“Whoever said breakups are a time for honesty?” Amanda whispers back.
“But I can’t even lie about Declan!” Amy insists. “The guy’s really perfect.”
Amanda murmurs something in agreement.
“I can hear you!” I wail. “And you’re right! That’s why this hurts so much!”
Amanda rushes over with the half-melted pint of ice cream. I can’t even bring myself to take a bite. That’s how bad this is—a breakup where I don’t eat myself into oblivion.
It’s the Breakupocalypse.
“Get it away from me,” I mutter. Chuckles comforts me by settling in my lap and rubbing his puckered ass**le up and down my arm. Nice. Not only have I not showered in two days, I can’t touch ice cream, but now I smell like cat butt.
I wonder if I feed him coffee cherries if I could make cat poop coffee from it and—
Then I remember Declan is the one who told me about cat poop coffee. I can’t even look at Chuckles’ butt without being reminded of the biggest mistake I ever made.
I make another mistake by saying that aloud. “Chuckles’ butt reminds me of Declan.” I sniff.
“She’s turning into our mother,” Amy whispers to Amanda without moving her lips.
“So it’s bad enough I lose Declan, now I’m turning into Moooooooom,” I wail. “That’s like learning your dog died and you have a bot fly larva growing on your labia.”
Amanda peels my laptop out of my fingers. “Someone’s been watching way too many zit-popping videos on YouTube today,” she mutters.
“She’s been holed up in here all weekend, logging in to work and doing reports. She says she doesn’t need to step outside for anything for at least nine days because of a batch of new, overeager mystery shoppers who will do all the in-person work for her and she just has to manage paperwork,” Amy tells Amanda.
“When did you get a penis?” I ask my sister.
All the eyebrows in the room except mine hit the ceiling. “When did I what?” Amy asks.
“You mansplained that perfectly. Over-explaining something that didn’t need to be over-explained, with just enough condescension to make me hate you. Perfecto!”
“She’s losing it,” Amanda murmurs out of one corner of her mouth.
“I already lost it. Lost him. Lost my dignity. Lost…everything.” I lean forward in a slumping motion. A cloud of fleas bounces around me.
I really am ripe.
Or Chuckles is infested.
“He’s a shallow ass**le!” Amanda says with about as much sincerity as Mom telling me she really liked my hair when I dyed it purple in eleventh grade.
“He’s not. He’s so damn amazing, and I—he—we…” I snatch my laptop back from Amanda and pop it open. “I just don’t know what the hell happened. None of it makes any sense. All I know is it’s all Jessica Coffin’s fault.”
I navigate to a zit video that features a man who appears to have a white-nippled breast growing out of his love handle. A woman bearing a heated pair of tweezers and wearing purple latex gloves performs backyard surgery while a group of relatives sit around a picnic table eating ambrosia salad.
My people. These are my people. This video will be—
“AUGH! GROSS! TURN THAT CRAP OFF!” Amy screams. Chuckles gets up and sits on my keyboard, making the video fast forward with no sound. No satisfying mashed potato goo coming out of the skin of people who view pus as entertainment.
People like…me.
“What have I become?” I moan. “I’m one of those weirdoes who watches zit videos.”