The Breakup Support Group

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2016 by Cheyanne Young

  THE BREAK UP SUPPORT GROUP by Cheyanne Young

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Media Group, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  EPub ISBN: 978-1-945107-78-8 Mobi ISBN: 978-1-945107-79-5

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-945107-90-0

  Published by Swoon Romance, Raleigh, NC 27609

  Cover design by Danielle Doolittle at DoElle Designs

  To the brokenhearted,

  and to the people who heal them.

  Chapter One

  My hand slips easily into Nate’s, and he gives it a little squeeze, his calloused palm fitting perfectly against mine. I draw in a deep breath of summer air and lean into his bicep as we walk through the parking lot of Deer Valley’s only movie theater. After spending the day indoors making a million school spirit pom-poms with my mom, the warm summer air is refreshing in my lungs. I close my eyes and draw in another deep breath. My free hand grabs Nate’s elbow, and I rest my cheek on his arm. I can never be too close to this boy. He is my boyfriend, my everything, and he has held that title since summer of seventh grade.

  Nate makes a flourish of his hand as we approach the historic movie theater. “So are we seeing Mediocre Movie number one or Mediocre Movie number two?” he says.

  The two screen facility is our town’s biggest attraction, although I am certain it’s because of the antique architecture and not the low-budget films it shows each week. If you want to see a good movie, you go to the massive cinema in the next town over. But for date night, when all you really care about is sharing popcorn and cuddling in the dark, you come to Hastings Cinema.

  I purse my lips and gaze up at the vintage marquee. Nate’s gorgeous face glows from the red and yellow neon lights that surround the vertical HASTINGS CINEMA sign, a restored and renovated version of the original sign from the forties. His short brown hair looks like it’s on fire beneath the lights. He peers down at me, expecting an answer. I bite my lip, reminding myself that staring at my hot boyfriend all night isn’t an option. “I don’t know … maybe we should do a coin toss?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. You made me choose last time so you choose this time. Looks like we’ve got a movie about old people in love and an action flick about saving the president. What’ll it be, Rush?”

  My boyfriend always calls me by my last name. I think it’s a football thing. I shrug. “Action flick. And a large popcorn. I’m starving.”

  “Okay, but Tom Cooley is in this movie, and you hate him,” Nate says, stepping to the side so we can pass between two concrete pillars hand-in-hand. He’ll never get over how horrified I was freshman year when we watched the European actor portray a freakishly deformed party clown in a movie that was supposed to be a satirical take on a horror film. All of our friends were laughing their asses off in Nate’s rec room, and I was hiding behind his back, covering my eyes with a throw pillow.

  “I think I can survive seeing him wielding a gun instead of that gigantic red nose.”

  “Guns are definitely more terrifying than a big red nose,” he says with a snort. I shake my head and start to disagree, but he’s already slipped out of the conversation—and my grasp.

  “Hastings! Man, what’s up?” Nate shouts across the remainder of the parking lot toward the lanky quarterback of Deer Valley High’s varsity team. He’s also the grandson of Alexander Hastings, owner of the theater. And he’s the reason we get all the free popcorn and soda we can consume. Alexander waves us over, and a few other massive guys from school shout out to my boyfriend. Even without their football uniforms, they all look similar. One of them calls my name as well, and waves for us to come over.

  Nate heads toward his teammates and best friends, all smiles and hearty small-talk insults about last week’s football practice. I shimmy along the asphalt in an attempt to keep up with him, cursing myself for wearing heels. Actually, I curse myself for more than the heels. The heels aren’t what annoys me; they are just a symbol of it. My hot pink pumps, paired with this black lacy knee-length dress are the symbol of a girl on a date night.

  I should have known this would turn into a group affair—Nate, the guys on the team, and me, the loyal girlfriend, Isla Rush. Alexander throws an arm around my shoulders, squeezing me in a one-armed hug and the scent of his woodsy deodorant fills the air. I force a smile and say hello to the guys, most of them seniors like Nate and me, and all of them the same guys I’ve known since kindergarten.

  Disappointment seeps into my bones, starting with my aching feet that are shoved into these sexy shoes and ending in a vise grip around my heart. I love these guys, I swear I do, but is it so hard to expect a single night alone with my boyfriend? I can’t even remember the last epic make out session we’ve had. This summer has been a whirlwind of football practice and cheer clinics and preparing for senior year. There hasn’t been much time for being in love lately.

  I untangle myself from Alexander’s arm and reach for Nate’s hand again, this time giving him a firm look. “Honey, we should get into the theater. I want a good seat this time.”

  “All seats are good seats at Hasting’s!” Alexander says, projecting his voice like he was in an old-timey commercial.

  “Bro, I think she means the good seats,” a guy we call Ford says, wiggling his eyebrows. “The seats in the way back of the theater.”

  He throws me a not-so-subtle wink and the group of athletes whoop at the innuendo. Seizing the opportunity, however embarrassing, to take my boyfriend away from his friends, I don a sultry gaze and tug on Nate’s arm.

  “Thanks, Ford. That’s exactly what I meant.”

  “Shit, man,” Ford says, turning his gaze onto Nate. “Teach me your ways. I need a woman, bad.”

  Nate rolls his eyes. “I have no special ways. She’s been my girl for a million years. We’re like an old married couple.”

  I don’t know why that stings, but it does. “Are we going?” I ask, unable to hide the bite in my voice.

  Nate runs his tongue across his bottom lip. “What did I tell you?” he says, gesturing to his friends. “She’s my ball and chain.”

  My face flushes until I’m probably as pink as my stupid shoes. I look toward the ticket booth, hoping no one notices. But at least the movement gets Nate’s feet moving as well. “I’ll catch up with you guys later,” he says to Alexander and the rest of them. “The old lady won’t stop until she gets her way.”

  I punch him playfully in the arm and almost wish I would have put some muscle behind it. My shoulders straighten. “You’re welcome to stay and hang out,” I say with a perfectly pleasant tone. “Maybe one of your friends wants to get a good seat with me instead?”

  A chorus of oooooohhhs roars from the group of football players and the look Nate gives me reminds me that his heart is mine and that it always has been. I guess he just needed a little playful reminder. He slips an arm around my waist and tugs me close to his chest. “Sorry, guys, looks like I’m busy for the next couple of hours.”

  The first time Nate and I went to th
e movies was during eighth grade. His dad had picked me up and dropped us off since we weren’t old enough to drive, and I still remember how hard my heart pounded from the backseat of Mr. Mile’s Tahoe. Even over the country music his dad blasted everywhere he went, I feared Nate would hear my heartbeat doing jumping jacks and know I was freaking out. This was an official date after all. My first.

  It was the start of December, and it was freezing cold outside. I wore a denim skirt and leggings in an effort to be cute, but the cold had me shivering like a maniac while we waited in line to buy tickets. And then thirteen-year-old Nate took off his jacket, a junior high letterman, and draped it over my shoulders. It didn’t do anything to stop the cold from crawling up my legs, but I was warm all the same. A boy had given me his jacket. I still have that jacket to this day, hanging somewhere in the back of my closet. It officially became mine on that first Christmas we spent together.

  We weave our way into the theater, which is oddly packed. Even on a Friday night, this place is usually dead. The theater survives on grant money and Mr. Hasting’s massive trust fund.

  The concession stand is whimsically lit up with an old-fashioned marquee hanging overhead. All of the items and prices are meticulously labeled with black plastic letters, and a strand of clear lightbulbs light up the border of the menu, the lights chasing each other around the rectangle. Nate stops at the back of the line, and I take his hand again, glad that we’re finally alone.

  The smell of popcorn makes my mouth water. “Large popcorn with butter,” Nate says, taking his VIP member card out of his back pocket. It’s what gets us free concessions. “And two drinks.”

  “Two?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow. The large popcorn makes sense—we usually get a medium, but I’d said I was starving. But one drink with two straws is how we’ve always done date nights.

  Nate shrugs. “I want my own drink tonight.”

  I don’t know why that stings, but it does.

  “Is everything okay with you?” The words are out of my mouth, all nagging and whining at the same time. I instantly regret that I even asked. Especially when his reaction is anything but ideal.

  He shrugs again and leads the way toward the theater on the left, popcorn in one hand and his own personal drink in the other. “I’m fine.”

  My brows draw together as we walk. “You seem weird.”

  “Well, I’m not.” He doesn’t even look at me. And when the movie starts playing, we eat our popcorn and we drink our separate drinks. And we don’t kiss, not even once.

  Chapter Two

  A week later, I’m still feeling like things with Nate are out of sync. He hardly calls me anymore. I get that football practice has started back up for the new season, but he used to call me during every water break. To his credit, I still get goodnight texts and smiley face emoji’s, but something is off. I’m not sure what, but I can feel it in my bones. That night at the movie theater had created a knot in my stomach that hasn’t yet gone away. It’s actually grown in size and taken over my whole ribcage.

  Luckily, my insane mother, who is my school’s cheer coach, has kept me so busy that I’m almost able to forget about the knot of uncertainty that has taken up a home in my chest cavity. School starts in two weeks, and we’ve turned our rarely used dining room into a green and gold spirit factory. Mini pom-poms attached to water bottles with the Deer Valley High’s Warrior mascot screened around it, mini pom-pom cupcake toppers, green and yellow food dye for the five dozen cupcakes we’ll be making in two days, foam fingers, Warrior masks, posters galore—I could go on for days. I’ve used so much green and gold glitter that I’m starting to find it in weird places that glitter should never be, like on my toothbrush.

  In a weird way, I’m really proud of my mom. Jane Rush has directed the cheer squad since the Warriors were an apathetic high school football team that no one cared about. Now, the Deer Valley Warriors are one of the state’s top-performing teams. I can’t help but wonder if some of that is due to my mother’s hard work in keeping the team motivated. The players are more confident and play better when everyone is cheering for them, and we seem to score more when the stands are painted in green and gold.

  Mom’s good at rousing people. She was a cheerleader in high school and college and even managed a few years cheering professionally for the Dallas Cowboys back before I was born. She has that classic cheerleader smile, all-white sparkling teeth and eyes that shine, a great body, and beachy blond hair that falls in perfect waves around her face. My mom is a catch—and my dad knows it. Marrying her is his second favorite thing to brag about, after me.

  I am characteristically none of the things that makes my mother so amazing. Where Mom’s hair is golden waves of perfection, I have mousy brown hair that can’t grow past my shoulders without looking plain stringy and weird. Unlike Mom’s ocean blue eyes, my eyes are the same color as my hair and entirely too large for my head. My friends all swear that my eyes aren’t that big, but I know they’re lying when they send me YouTube tutorials on how to draw on eyeliner to minimize your eyes. Even with a mom as hot as mine, I am a female version of Dad, the nerdy accountant. Except I’m terrible at math. Sometimes genetics has an ironic sense of humor, I guess.

  I’m also not a cheerleader. Not from a lack of trying out three grades in a row, and certainly not from a lack of my mother pushing me to be my best with late-night cheer sessions in the back yard and copious amounts of watching old DVDs from her Cowboys days. Some people just aren’t born with the skills to jump around in sync and shout catchy cheers to an audience of bored small town high school football fans. I am one of them.

  So instead, I hold the (not) esteemed and (super) embarrassing title of Spirit Squad Leader. It is a title my mother invented shortly after she was hired on to be the cheer coach. Basically, it’s me and a few other girls who are all too inept to make it onto the cheer squad. We paint our faces and wear green and gold and carry megaphones and hang out in the bleachers at the football games. We help rouse the crowd and pass out mini pom-poms and noisemakers to little kids. We organize fundraisers and bring in snacks for the cheerleaders and the football players. We’re basically glorified water boys.

  I wear the title proudly because it keeps me close to Nate. There’s no way you can date a linebacker unless you hang out on the field with him every day after school and attend every football game. Regular students aren’t allowed off the bleachers, but the Spirit Squad can come and go on the field. That’s why I love what I do.

  I smile slightly and squeeze the trigger on the glue gun, aiming it toward a plastic football. Before I realize my horrible aim, a bead of molten pain sears through my index finger. “Dammit!” I yelp, dropping the glue gun. I wipe off the glue and put my finger in my mouth. “Ah, shit that hurts.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Mom says from across the table, her voice sounding resigned, probably from years of futile attempts to make me watch my mouth. She leans over and takes the glue gun, righting it so that it won’t burn a hole through the tablecloth.

  I suck in a deep breath through my teeth, flailing my burned finger around in the air. The coolness from my spit helps it a little, but I know it’ll blister and then the rest of my day will be screwed. Tears pool in my eyes as I stare at the stupid red splotch on my skin.

  “You okay?” Mom asks, peering at me over her own glue gun. I nod, and her lips flatten. She squeezes glue onto a plastic football then presses it to a wooden W and puts her glue gun down next to mine. “Talk to me, Isla.”

  My already huge eyes get even bigger in my poor representation of innocence. I shrug. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  Mom’s ocean blue eyes meet mine. She’s giving me that you can’t fool me look. “You’ve been weird all week, girl. I’m not an idiot. What’s wrong?”

  I swallow and seriously consider telling her about Nate and how distant he’s been lately. It’s awkward to talk to parents about this kind of thing, but maybe she’ll have some insight, some kind of advic
e to put my mind at ease. But then the back door creaks open, and I’m saved by the arrival of my dad.

  “Where’s my girls?” he calls out, walking through the alcove that leads into the dining room, AKA the Warrior’s spirit warehouse. Of course he knows we’re in here—we’re always in here before school starts. He shrugs off his shoulder bag and opens it, taking out a few papers that he hands to Mom. “Can you look over this real quick, see if I forgot anything?” To me, Dad smiles. “I was thinking pizza after the meeting. What do you say, Isla?”

  “Meeting?” I ask for one confusing second. And then I groan. “Ugh, is it HOA time again?”

  “That’s why I’m bribing you with pizza,” Dad says, throwing me a wink. I roll my eyes, wondering if I could claim that my finger burn needs hospital intervention and then get out of going to this stupid meeting. Both of my parents are on the board for the Homeowners Association, and they drag me to the monthly meetings to help them pass out paperwork and collect signatures. Basically, I’m the Spirit Girl of the HOA. The only good thing about these meetings is that Nate’s parents are on the board, too. He lives just a few streets over. The close proximity is how we first met at a bus stop all those years ago.

  I haven’t seen him in three days, and I definitely need some boyfriend time. I force a smile and shove down the painful feeling in my chest. This will be a good meeting. Nate will be over whatever has been making him weird lately, and things will go back to normal. Yep, I think as I head to my bedroom and get ready, flailing my burned finger. Everything will go back to normal, just like it always has.

  Nate waves at me from his place at the entrance of Grace Care, a senior living facility with the cheapest conference room in town. His massive shoulders not only make him a great linebacker, but it enables him to be seen from far away. “I’ll see you guys inside,” I say to my parents as I jog ahead to meet him.