Break Up with Him, for Me: A ‘Friends to Lovers’ Romance Read online

  “You can do this, Michael. You can do this.” He takes a few deep breaths before finally approaching the door and opening it.

  “Hey there, babe,” he says.

  Babe?

  “Hey sexy.” A brunette who looks way older than me wraps her arms around his neck. Her D-cup breasts are popping out of a tight, low-cut pink dress, and her makeup is painted to perfection. “I know that we agreed to celebrate Valentine’s Day tomorrow, but I can’t wait until then.”

  Michael grips her waist in the same way he gripped mine—giving her the same deep, open-mouthed kiss that he offered to me minutes ago. He even whispers, “I’ve missed you so damn much,” in a verbatim cadence.

  What in the actual fuck?

  For a moment, I wonder if I ever looked as foolish and bewildered as the brunette does at this moment. So in love and so naïve.

  When he pulls away from her mouth, he lets out a deep sigh. “I need to tell you something super important, Kylie.”

  “Yeah?” She kicks off her shoes. “What is it?”

  “I’m a cheating bastard and I’ve been dating a high-school girl.” I wait for him to say those words and let me out of the closet, so that we can marvel at his lies.

  “I know that we’ve been ‘off and on’ these past few months,” he says, grabbing her hands and staring into her eyes. “But I want you to know that I’m ready for us to stay ‘on’ this time for good, and I’ve put a lot of thought into making our Valentine’s Day special … I have strawberries, whipped cream, and a specialty champagne I bought for you.”

  No, really. What in the actual—

  “Oh my gosh, seriously?” She points to the red purse at the foot of his bed. My red purse. “Is that Coach bag for me, too?”

  “Yes, it is.” He pushes it onto the floor. “I’ll let you grab that later. Kiss me first.”

  I pinch myself a few times to make sure that I’m not imagining this scene. That somewhere along my linear narrative of the day, the universe hasn’t randomly decided to throw in a crazy subplot that ruins my story.

  The painful pinches on my wrists are real as ever, though, and the more I watch Michael’s mannerisms—the more I hear him whisper the very words he’s whispered to me, the past months of our relationship play before my eyes in a clarifying slow-motion.

  He only called me at night, and he hardly ever wanted to go on dates during the daytime, since he claimed, “I want to keep you all to myself.” He preferred showing up to my practices at the rink instead of letting me come over.

  Although he did come to some of my competitions, he never took selfies with me at the ceremonies. He waited until I joined him in the parking lot, and he was always parked in the farthest row.

  Foolish, foolish girl.

  By the time I’m finished replaying all of the memories that confirm he was never serious about me, the brunette is moaning, and he’s trailing wet kisses against her chest.

  “Oh godddd, Michael,” she says.

  Screw this.

  I kick at the closet door until it opens.

  “Seriously, Michael? Were you planning to let me rot in there all night?”

  He looks over his shoulder and gasps.

  “Um…Who are you?” The brunette covers her chest with a pillow. “And why the hell are you watching us from the closet?”

  “Oh, wow,” Michael says, his voice deadpan. “This is so shocking. This is my roommate’s girlfriend—Well, ex-girlfriend. I think she’s here trying to surprise him or something.”

  I stare at him in utter disbelief.

  “That’s who you are, isn’t it?” He shoots me a pleading look.

  “Hell no.” I grab my purse. “This is my Coach bag, by the way.”

  I look over at the brunette as I head to the door. “I’ve been dating him since January, and I almost gave him my virginity tonight. He’s been cheating on you, too.”

  I don’t wait for the aftermath. I slam the door shut and rush straight down the emergency stairwell.

  Seattle’s wet and winds slap me in the face once I push open the door. They remind me that I left my coat in Michael’s room.

  Refusing to return, I fold my arms across my chest and walk to the front of the building.

  When I make it inside the lobby, I pull out my phone and open the Uber app. The closest driver is an hour away, and there’s a mandatory surcharge for the distance.

  I groan and shut the app. Then I scroll through my contacts, pausing at “Dad” and “Mom.” If they were still alive right now, I’d happily submit to their “We’re so disappointed in you” lectures and threats of punishment for the entire ride home. Hell, I’d even suggest that they ground me for the rest of the year.

  Shaking away those thoughts, I continue to scroll through the list—passing the names of my coaches, competitors, and neighbors. I know these people well, but not well enough to call for a favor at this hour.

  Upon reaching the end of the list, only “Ugh: Cocky Bastard,” i.e., Hayden Hunter, my brother’s best friend, remains.

  Just the sight of his name is enough to make me roll my eyes.

  If there were ever an award for ‘Guy Who Thinks He’s God’s Gift to Women,’ Hayden would win it in a landslide every year. To make matters worse, every woman who has ever laid eyes on him would happily cast a vote in his honor and tell him that he has every right to think that way.

  With his stunning blue eyes, dreamy dark brown hair, and chiseled jawline that’s practically made for the cover of GQ magazine, he’s definitely one of the most attractive guys that I’ve ever seen in my life. Hands down. But once he parts his full and defined lips to speak, all of his attractiveness goes up in flames.

  He’s the ultimate man whore who has had a terrible influence on my brother, and I’ll always regret the day he came into our lives. The day he became the closest person to Travis and made me nothing more than a third wheel.

  He has to have at least ten STDs by now. No, twenty.

  Clicking on his name, I read through our recent, one-sided thread of text messages.

  Ugh: Cocky Bastard: I dropped off a package at your house earlier. It’s from Travis. Maybe he finally sent you what you need: Some goddamn gratefulness. You’re welcome for my FREE help, by the way.

  Ugh: Cocky Bastard: Your brother needs you to call him after your evening practice. He says that he doesn’t want you out past eleven since you have a meeting with those TIME and Skate World reporters in the a.m.

  Ugh: Cocky Bastard: I can SEE that you’re reading my goddamn messages, Penelope. Can you at least respond?

  I’ve never answered anything from him, and I have no interest in starting now.

  I reopen the Uber app and decide to wait for as long as it takes.

  I’d rather freeze to death than deal with Hayden …

  Breakup #1.5

  the one that ruined Valentine’s Day

  Hayden

  Back Then

  * * *

  Travis: Hey. I’m sure that you’re probably somewhere getting your cock sucked right now, but can you give me an update on Penelope? It’s been FIVE days.

  Travis: Did you deliver the training check to her coach yet? That three grand is still sitting in my account.

  Travis: WTF? Answer me, Hayden. I’m only trying to check in on my goddamn sister. I’m doing all I can to make sure she’s cared for.

  * * *

  If you care so damn much, you need to come back home ...

  I clench my jaw as I read over Travis’s latest text messages.

  It’s only been six months since he traded in the cold rains of Seattle for the sweltering summers of Las Vegas, but with each demanding text he sends, it feels more like a decade.

  The morning after his parents’ joint funeral, he placed a UFC Looking to Expand its Sport news clipping on my coffee table, along with a list titled, ‘Things You Need to Help Penelope (Crown) with While I’m Gone.’

  With no emotion whatsoever, he said, “I need to focus
all of my energy on taking care of Penelope now. I’m trying my shot at MMA fighting and I’ll send as much money as I can back home. You can still work on your dating app and help me with her from afar, right?”

  He didn’t wait for a response.

  He picked up a duffle bag, drove home to break the news to his sister, and I haven’t seen him since.

  In his absence, I’ve found myself thrust into the world of competitive figure skating, and I honestly preferred the days when I never knew it existed. The days when I didn’t have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn and shuttle Penelope to and from dozens of practices, when the phrases “triple toe loop” or “double axel” weren’t things I understood, and when the only ice-skating competition I’d ever watched was on television via the Olympics.

  I’m sick of this shit.

  Rolling out of bed, I make sure not to wake the woman next to me. Our one night stand—along with her name, is long forgotten, but I’m not the type of guy who will ever let her know.

  I uncap a marker and write, “Thx for a good time—Had fun,” on the back of a burger wrapper before setting it on her nightstand. Then I walk around the mattress to pick up my clothes.

  After pulling on my T-shirt, I quietly grab my keys and put on my shoes. I double-check to make sure that I’m not leaving anything behind and head outside to my car.

  Speeding across town, I pull into the driveway of Travis’s house to “make sure Penelope’s cared for.”

  The porch lamps burn brightly, but there’s no glare from Penelope’s bedroom television like usual.

  Confused, I take out my phone and send her a text.

  * * *

  Me: Hey. Can you flash the lights upstairs or turn on your TV so I can confirm that you’re alive? Your brother wants to be sure that you’re alright.

  * * *

  The “message read” alert pops up, but she doesn’t respond.

  Of course.

  * * *

  Me: Hey Travis. Pen’s safe at home. Just checked. She says that she’ll call you tomorrow.

  Travis: Thanks man, I appreciate it.

  Travis: How have you been lately? Is your dating app going well?

  * * *

  I know that he doesn’t give a fuck about my work, so I don’t bother answering his questions.

  Instead, I mute our thread and drive out of the neighborhood—heading home for an all-nighter. As I’m turning up the music, Penelope’s name crosses my dashboard via phone call.

  I hit ignore.

  She calls again.

  I hit ignore once more.

  When I merge onto the highway, she calls me a third time.

  “What, Penelope?” I answer. “I already told your brother that you were at home. You’re welcome.”

  “I’m … I’m not at home.” Her teeth are chattering. “Not at all.”

  I know that I should ask where she is, but I continue driving—letting a silence stretch between us.

  “Are you still there, Hayden?” she asks.

  “I’m waiting to hear why the hell you’re calling me at three o’clock in the morning.”

  “I need a ride home. Can you pick me up?”

  “Come again?” I pull into the emergency lane. “Did you stay at the arena to practice or something?”

  “This drunk couple stole my Uber and the closest one is two hours away.” She avoids my question. “I can give you gas money since I’m kind of far. Please.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “The Avis Dorm at Central University.”

  Huh? I’m certain that I misheard that. “That’s an all-boys dorm.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Then what are you doing there this time of night?”

  “I was studying. With a boy.”

  “Right.” I make a U-turn. I consider telling her to stay on the phone with me until I arrive, but I don’t owe her anything. She’s never once said, “Thank you” to me for anything.

  “Are you coming to get me?” she asks.

  “Unfortunately. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  I hang up and drive fifteen miles under the speed limit.

  She can wait.

  When I pull up to the Avis Dorm, I can see Penelope arguing with a security guard through the lobby’s windows. Her face is beet red, and she’s shaking her head back and forth, looking as if she’s refusing to leave.

  Dressed in silver stilettos and a thin, red dress that leaves little to the imagination, she was clearly here for anything but “studying.”

  I honk the horn a few times, cutting her argument with the guard short.

  She snatches something from his pocket before rushing outside, and the guard throws up his middle finger.

  Where the hell is her coat?

  She flings the passenger door open, and I turn up the heat.

  As she buckles her seatbelt, I can’t help but notice the tears streaming past her cheeks.

  “Studying is supposed to be pleasurable, not make you cry.” I pull onto the street. “Was your boyfriend that bad in bed?”

  “You know what?” She wipes her eyes. “Can you drop me off on the highway? I think I’d rather wait for another Uber.”

  “Too late.” I make sure the doors are locked. “Not that I give a damn, but please tell me that you used a condom.”

  “I didn’t use anything, okay?” She glares at me. “Because nothing happened.”

  “That’s not what your dress says.”

  “My dress is a costume that I’ve worn on the ice before, but go ahead and snap a picture. I’m sure you’re itching to send it to Travis and tell him all about this.”

  “I’m not telling your brother shit.” I look over at her. “Your sex life is none of his business. It’s not mine either.”

  “That may be the smartest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “No, offering to get you condoms is. Do you need me to stop and get you some?”

  “Are you dense? I just said that nothing happened. And nothing happened because my so-called boyfriend ruined Valentine’s Day the moment his real, college-girlfriend showed up.” The words rush out of her mouth. “He’s been cheating on me this entire time, and I can’t believe I was naïve enough to trust that a college guy would ever be faithful to a high school girl. That he was ever worthy of being my first.”

  Yeah, you definitely should’ve known better than that.

  “Would you like me to give you some boyfriend advice for the future?” I ask.

  “Ha! I’ll pass.” She shakes her head. “I doubt that I’ll ever need your advice on anything. Then again, the moment I want to know how to be an asshole or a man-whore, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Leave a voicemail.” I turn on the music, preventing any further conversation.

  I drive fifteen miles over the speed limit this time, and I don’t stop at any red lights.

  The quicker I can drop her off, the better.

  Twenty minutes later, when I pull into her driveway for the second time tonight, I consider getting out and opening the door for her. Until I look over and see that she’s changing my name in her phone again. I’m not listed as “Ugh: Cocky Bastard,” anymore.

  I’m now Unsympathetic Asshole (Do Not Call Ever Again).

  On the one hand, it’s an improvement from the names “Fuckhead Hayden (I Hate Him)” and “Definitely Has Syphilis” from last week, but not worthy enough for me to be a gentleman.

  “Okay then,” I say. “You can get the hell out of my car now. I’ll pick you up on Saturday for practice, unless you find a new study buddy by then. Try to make sure that he doesn’t have a girlfriend first.”

  “That’s a low blow,” she says. “Even for you.”

  “I can say much worse than that, trust me.” I point to the door. “Only one of us has attempted to be cordial these past six months. Spoiler alert: It hasn’t been you. Double spoiler alert: It won’t be me after tonight.”

  “There’s no need to be cordial wh
en you’re a huge part of the reason why Travis agreed to leave me here,” she says. “The fact that he was ever willing to take any advice from someone who flaunts ‘bros over hos’ as his personal motto has never made sense to me.”

  “I’ve never said ‘bros over hos.’” I lean over and push the door open since she’s not moving fast enough. “I may have said, ‘Put me over pussy’ a few times, but that’s none of your concern. Once again, now is the time for you to get the hell out of my car.”

  “Gladly.” She steps out. “I need to hurry up and shower in case I caught one of your STDs during this ride.”

  “You know what?” I’m done playing nice. “That’s exactly why your boyfriend cheated on you. He got tired of your bullshit in the bedroom since you probably kept asking about STDs every time he fucking breathed on you. I bet he wanted to date someone who actually knows which hole his cock goes into, someone who doesn’t have the body of a twelve-year old boy.”

  Her jaw drops to the ground.

  “Let me know if I need to pick up a Sex 101 book for you the next time I’m at Walmart. I’ll even highlight the important anatomy parts if you like.”

  “Fuck you, Hayden.” She slams the door shut.

  I roll down the window, feeling a sudden need to get the last word. “You’re welcome for the ride home, Penelope.”

  “No, thank you.” She glares at me. “I’ll never call to ask you for another one.”

  “That’s more than fine. I’ll never pick up the phone for you this late again.”

  “In the meantime, try to clean out your car. It smells like unsatisfied pussy.”

  “How would you know? You can’t even find yours.” I roll up the window a bit—ready to pull off and leave her standing there fuming, but her lips begin to move.