“But how did he do it?” Rory asked. “How exactly?” She crossed her legs underneath her on Isabel’s bed and grabbed a pillow to knead with her hands. She needed something to work off the anxiety.
Isabel sat back in the chair, dazed. A strand of hair stuck to her tearstained cheek. “I can’t believe this is happening. Two guys in a row? Do I have leper tattooed on my back or something?”
“No,” Rory said, feeling a lump in her throat. “There is nothing wrong with you. He’s the one who’s obviously screwed up.” Rory grabbed the pillow again and squeezed it.
“Are you okay?” Isabel asked. “You seem a little nervous.”
“I’m fine,” she said, willing herself to be still. “Go on.”
“Well, we were talking at one point—about nothing, really—and then all of a sudden he started in on it. How much he liked me, how he thought I was great. But that he wanted to be fair to me. Which is such bullshit. I mean, no guy ever cares about being fair to someone. Like that’s a reason to break up with someone. But anyway, he said that he had feelings for someone else.”
“He said that?” Rory asked, willing her face to stay as expressionless as possible.
“Yep,” Isabel said, smiling grimly. “Some other girl he’s into. But yet, I’m so beautiful and smart and funny. Please. And here I thought he was some nice guy. Turns out that he’s just a player. I guess we were both wrong about him.”
Rory swallowed. “Do you think he’s really a player?”
“So then I thought, there’s no way I’m going to spend the rest of the summer hanging out with this guy,” Isabel went on, “so I quit.”
“You quit?” Rory said, even more shocked now.
“That job was lame,” Isabel said. “Too much work. The tips were pathetic. And the people were annoying. How many times can you hear that someone wants the chipotle mayo on the side? God, I was about ready to lose it.” She rubbed the ball of her foot. “Plus, I was sick and tired of wearing black.”
“So what did you say back to Evan?”
Isabel shrugged. “I said okay and left. What was I going to do? Fight him on it? Burst into tears? I have some dignity, after all. I told him whoever this girl was, she could have him.”
Rory plucked at a loose string on Isabel’s bedspread, trying hard to think. If she didn’t say anything, then she’d spare them both an awful, deeply uncomfortable talk. If she did say something, then Isabel might hate her, but at least she’d have a clear conscience. And there was the striking possibility that Isabel was right. Maybe Evan was a player. She’d heard about guys who were late bloomers in the romance department, who then went on to give guys like John Mayer a run for their money.
“But you know what?” Isabel went on, picking up a stack of magazines and plopping herself and them down on the bed next to Rory. “I wasn’t that into him anyway. All he does is shoot these weird shorts for YouTube. Which I don’t even think are that funny. And he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t surf, he doesn’t play sports, he drives this strange beat-up Saab that was discontinued, like, a thousand years ago. And whoever this girl is that he’s into, she’s probably just as lame and boring as he is.”
Rory was quiet.
“I mean, if I wasn’t right for him, then it’s probably someone with no style, no sense of humor, and, let’s face it, no looks.” She flopped over onto her stomach, almost fully recovered now, and took a copy of Vogue off the top of the stack. “So it’s all okay. I can do better, and he can’t. It’s as simple as that.” Isabel looked up at Rory. “What’s wrong? I hope I’m not depressing you or anything.”
“No, no, I think you’re probably right,” she said, swallowing. “I’m sure you can do better than Evan.”
“I know I can,” Isabel said, opening the magazine.
Rory got up and backed away toward the door. “I think I’m gonna go down and check e-mail for a sec. I’ll see you in a little bit.”
“Okay,” Isabel said, still lost in thought.
Rory left and headed down the stairs, feeling sick to her stomach. This was a disaster, and she felt completely responsible. But at least Isabel seemed like she would survive this.
When she got to her room, there was a text from a familiar 203 number.
Broke up with Isabel today. Can I call you? Can I see you?
She sat down on the bed and thought. If she wrote him back, she would be betraying Isabel. But if she didn’t write him back, she would never know if he was more than a crush.
She picked up the phone and stared at the message. All she needed was a little more time. If she gave herself a little more time, she’d know what to do.
Isabel sat in front of the surf shop with the engine running, trying to think of the best opening line. There was always, “Hey, I was just nowhere near your neighborhood,” like that line in that movie she saw with Matt Dillon playing a grunge rocker. Or there was something honest, and cute, like, “So… drunk texting: not really my thing.” Or there was simply, “Hi.” Or, “Hey sorry about that text I sent. I can’t stop thinking about it, and it makes me cringe every time, and would you please just forget that I sent it?” But nothing sounded quite right.
She turned off the engine, convinced that she’d figure out the best opener as soon as she was face-to-face with Mike. Between seeing her dad, getting dumped by Evan, and then reliving the entire episode by telling Rory, her brain was a little addled right now. And Mike couldn’t be that mad at her, if he was as into her as he said he was. Everyone drunk texted once in a while, for God’s sake.
She was reaching for the door handle when Mike stepped out of the shop. He was talking to someone over his shoulder. Instantly, she ducked behind the wheel. She waited, staring at the GPS screen, and then lifted her head.
Mike was talking to a slim brunette. A pretty, slim brunette wearing a teeny, tiny tank top and jeans that looked like they were painted on. He was showing her one of the surfboards propped up by the door. With her arms folded across her chest, she seemed to be hanging on his every word, and he seemed to be at least as interested in talking to her, because he was using his hands a lot as he spoke, which she’d never seen Mike do.
So it’s a customer. Big deal. She’d laughed and joked with her customers at the restaurant in a way that she would never have done with anyone in real life. It wasn’t anything to read into.
Then Mike grabbed a wet suit off a hanger and held it up to the girl. She grabbed it and pressed it to herself, then twirled around on the tips of her toes, pretending to model it for him. Mike laughed. She laughed. Isabel could practically see the cartoon birds and hearts floating in the air between them.
That was it, she thought. She jammed her key in the ignition and turned on the engine. Two seconds later she peeled out of the parking lot, and if Mike happened to see who it was behind the wheel, then she couldn’t care less.