Never Vacation with Your Ex(2)
Author: Emily Wibberley

 

I look up, starting to see schedules, blocks of time shifting on my precarious calendar. “Try again after practice tomorrow?”

 

Bri rolls her eyes. “Call Dean,” she says.

 

I feel my whole body stiffen. My schedules disappear, the calendar blocks vanishing under the wave of ridiculousness of what Bri’s suggesting. Frustration pounds in my flushed cheeks. “No,” I say.

 

Bri fixes me with a wordless stare.

 

“I dumped him,” I go on incredulously. “Like, dropped him with hardly an explanation not three weeks ago, and you want me to ask him to photograph me in bikini bottoms as a favor?”

 

My friend just shrugs. “He’s a great photographer,” she says, like it’s justification enough. Which it is not.

 

I frown—grimace, more like. Yes, he is a great photographer. My account saw huge growth when he started helping me with my content. It wasn’t why we were dating, obviously. It wasn’t why we broke up, either.

 

Honestly, I didn’t give Dean a reason for why I ended our two-month relationship because I knew I couldn’t explain this . . . feeling I get. This wound-up, suffocating spiral. In every relationship, it happens. The clenching cold fills me up, spreading from my chest into my fingertips, up past my eyes, until the only thing I see whenever I’m with the guy I’m dating is how I want out. It’s kind of horrible, honestly. But it’s the way it is.

 

Could I have done a better job of breaking up with Dean? Definitely. Have I done a better job of dumping guys in the past? On numerous notable occasions. But Dean was different.

 

Which was the problem. Is there a nice way to dump your childhood best friend after two months?

 

It’s not like breaking up with people is easy. In media, you only see the pain of being dumped. But where’s my breakup song from the perspective of the dumper? It’s its own special sort of heartache to hurt a nice, cute boy who did nothing wrong. I’m usually not one for excuses, for cheap outs like It was hard or I didn’t know.

 

But . . . it was hard.

 

It’s over now, though, and it’s time to move on.

 

Brianna shrugs without remorse.

 

Studying the photos with every ounce of concentration I can muster, I feel a migraine coming on in the fuzziness of my phone screen. It’s one of the early signs, the warping of the small, intensely colorized display. Well, great.

 

Deep down, I’m not entirely surprised. Between practicing nearly every day to set myself up to qualify for the Olympics after high school, growing my social media in order to attract sponsorships, and doing passably well in my classes, it’s possible I’m taking on too much. Factor in the breakup with Dean, and “too much” is far behind me.

 

I pull my aspirin out of my sweatshirt pocket. While Brianna watches, I swallow them down with my Diet Coke. “I’m driving you home,” she declares.

 

Grateful, I nod. I’ve had chronic migraines for the past few years, brought on by stress and my cycle. This isn’t the first time Bri’s been here to help when one knocks me out. “Let me choose the photo first,” I say, restarting my review while the medicine begins to ease the pounding in my head.

 

It would be easy to pick something impulsively, to decide one post in thousands didn’t matter much. I don’t, though. I force myself to evaluate each of Brianna’s shots until finally I decide on one where I’m running back from the net, volleyball in hand. The sunset shines off the top of my dark blond ponytail, which is overdue for a color appointment to return it to a shiny yellow-gold I look tan, which is good—studying for finals turned my skin pale beige, but thanks to my mom’s genes, one or two days outside returned me to bronze. In the photo, I’m mid-laugh, my expression offering no hint of the effort these photos took. I look casual. Carefree.

 

Which people respond to, I’ve noticed. While they engage with my sports content, they love the unguarded humanness, the reminders I’m a person. It’s one principle I’ve learned on Instagram and found extends into real life—no one loves a princess who doesn’t make it look easy.

 

“This one,” I say. I hold out the phone to show Bri.

 

She doesn’t look to see the photo I’ve chosen. “You really don’t want to call Dean,” she comments, her brown eyes on me.

 

Just like I did in the photos, I put on a smile as I begin editing. “Thanks to your excellent photo taking, I don’t have to,” I say, willing my headache to remain manageable until I get home. I work steadily, warming up the muscles I’ve developed from years of doing this. First, I change the contrast, then play with the saturation to keep this photo consistent with the color profile on the rest of my feed. I write my caption, tagging the local clothing company.

 

When I’m about to hit post, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from my dad.

 

Remember we have to book flights for California tonight. I need to know what days you have practice.

 

 

 

Unexpectedly, the logistical reminder is exactly what I need right now. I let out a breath, immersing myself momentarily in the thought of Malibu, where my family goes for summer vacation every year.

 

The memory is enough to ease the pressure in my head. Crystal water. Soft sand. California sun. The trip coming up—three weeks in Malibu, between training and tournaments—will be my chance to unwind after the busiest year of my life.

 

I can’t wait.

 

Feeling renewed, I post the photo. I set my phone on the table, then reach for a fry, finally ready to enjoy my dinner.

 

My phone vibrates to life once more.

 

When I look down, my heart stops. It’s my dad. I read his message once, then over several times. Fighting past the zigzags in my vision, I start to hope the headache is making me see things.

 

The Freeman-Yus are getting into LA a day before us, so the earlier we can fly out the better.

 

 

 

“Crap,” I say quietly.

 

Bri pauses expectantly, fry midway to the ketchup. I show her my phone, which she reads expressionlessly.

 

“Kaylee,” she says calmly. “Tell me your dad means different Freeman-Yus.”

 

I wish I could.

 

I thought it would go without saying. I thought it was obvious our vacation plans would change this year from the tradition of our California trip every summer with my parents’ closest friends. Friends who they’ve known since college, who they settled down on the shore of Newport, Rhode Island, in part to be near—the Freeman-Yus: Terry Freeman, Darren Yu, their daughters, Jessie and Lucy, and their son, Dean.