Never Vacation with Your Ex(5)
Author: Emily Wibberley

 

Or, say, leveling our friendship like floodwaters. Which is what happened.

 

My headache is unrelenting. I roll onto my side, searching for relief. The cool of my pillow is small comfort.

 

I should’ve known. Should’ve known I would screw everything up. It was an open secret in our families that Dean had a huge crush on me. When we were six, he declared we’d get married, and, of course, everyone has teased us about it ever since. Deep down, I knew what it meant when we got together. I knew dating him wouldn’t be casual.

 

I’d wanted to anyway. And why not? Despite the deluge of guilt washing over me, this little fire of indignation hasn’t gone out. It’s unfair—that Dean was allowed to have his crush and not have to hide it away, but when I began to have a crush back, I was the problem. I was the one told no. The one told to consider the consequences.

 

Dean never had to consider the consequences, safe in the idea that his crush would remain unrequited.

 

But I liked him, too.

 

I flip over onto my other side, still hoping one of these poses will help ease the pressure in my head. Unfortunately, this new position puts me right in the eyeline of one of the photos on my wall—from California, with our families in the frame. Dean is right next to me, smiling, sunscreen sticking his wavy dark hair to his forehead. Since our breakup, I’ve removed the photos of just us from my room, but I kept this one because everyone’s in it.

 

I’m regretting the decision now.

 

I settle for closing my eyes, flat on my back. Newport is quiet on the coastline where we live. I keep hoping the peace of the night will help me doze off.

 

Instead, memories keep me stuck in my sleeplessness. We had a good two months together—a really good two months. There were playlists shared. There were bike rides on Narragansett Beach. There were photoshoots overlooking the cliffs. There were kisses in this very room while my parents, putting together “taco night” downstairs, definitely knew what was going on.

 

Then he told me he loved me and I said it back, and the next day, I broke up with him.

 

When he asked me why, I didn’t have a good answer. I don’t know if a good answer is even possible for heartbreak.

 

I can’t fault him for how obviously pissed he’s been on the few regrettable occasions when we’ve crossed paths, in class or in the halls. It hurts, but it’s understandable. Inevitable. In fact—

 

My eyes fly open.

 

If there’s one person who wants to go to California with our families less than I do, it might just be Dean. He hasn’t said two words to me since our breakup. For all I know, he hates me, and our friendship is sunk like a shipwreck.

 

Dean is probably having the same conversation with his parents tonight that I had with mine, except Terry and Darren will be reasonable. They’ll let Dean stay home. Sure, it’ll still be awkward sharing a house with my ex’s family, but it’ll be better than Dean himself. He’ll stay home, silently hating me from afar.

 

The thought is both comforting and painful, which I resent.

 

I sit up in bed, motivated by new hope, knowing what I need to do. No more hiding. No more fretting. No more dreading vacations or family events I should look forward to. I need to definitively get over this breakup.

 

Fortunately, getting over breakups is one thing in which I have plenty of experience. My methodology is perfected. Tested by time, by frequency, by variety. I could probably teach community college courses on the subject if I wanted to. I can envision the flyers now—Kaylee Jordan. Volleyball star, social media personality, breakup expert.

 

Instead of moping, it’s time I put my practice to work. One way of getting over someone? A rebound.

 

I reach for my phone. Thumbing through my contacts, I focus on the merits of this plan. It’ll help me stop dwelling endlessly on why things went wrong with Dean, certainly. If I’m lucky, it’ll possibly even give Dean the kick he needs to get over me. If he hasn’t opted out of our vacation yet, maybe hearing I’m with someone new will make him hate me enough to bail on California. It’s genius.

 

It’s almost depressing how excited it makes me to have found this way of getting him to hate me. Instead of fixating on this thought, though, I force myself to continue through my contacts.

 

My fingers still on a name I programmed in as Jeremy from Newport Fest. I don’t usually listen to the local music festival’s music, instead just enjoying the summer weather, the wandering from stage to stage on the sand-flecked grass of the harbor mouth, and the obviously great photo ops. I remember Jeremy’s band, though. They were good—they would be going-places good when they got older. This number is what I have for walking right up to him while they were leaving the stage from their set. I never texted him, though. School started and I got swept up in other things.

 

Time to change that.

 

Inspiration cuts through the painful fog of my headache. I start to type.

 

At Newport Fest last year, a very tall blonde asked you for your number after your set. She was extremely charming and had lips you definitely thought about kissing while you watched her from onstage. Ring any bells?

 

 

 

I put my phone down, pleased with the message. I’m not expecting him to respond immediately. When he sees it, though, he’ll reply.

 

My phone vibrates only seconds later.

 

Kaylee, right? I definitely remember.

 

 

 

I smile as I reply, already feeling the rejuvenation of a rebound quickening my pulse.

 

I know this is, like, nine months late, but do you want to hang out?

 

Name a time and place.

 

Nine months is nothing, btw. You were worth the wait.

 

 

 

 

 

Four

 

 

I WALK ONTO CAMPUS on Monday tentatively hopeful. Over the weekend, I went out with Jeremy. First to the new bakery in town, then to the nearby beach park, where we sat near the shore. He was funny. His sung Harry Styles impression was legitimately impressive. In every respect, it went great.

 

While he’s not my boyfriend yet, things are tending in that direction. I posted a tasteful if leading photo of the two of us to my Stories and told Brianna to help spread the word. It’ll reach Dean eventually. He’ll be pissed, but it’ll help us both in the long run.

 

Except when I head toward my locker, I see him waiting for me in what was, for two months, our spot.

 

Dean. He stands out to me the way he has my entire life. For the visible reasons, of course—there’s no ignoring the fact that Dean is handsome, with his face full of sharp lines, his contemplative lips, his keen, dark eyes set in golden-brown skin. He wears hipsterism like he does everything, entirely without self-consciousness. On others, obscure music shirts or cuffed jeans or hair worn in a bun might be a posture, a costume. Not Dean, though. They’re just what he genuinely likes. I know him well enough to be sure. His unreserved himselfness is inspiring, and magnetic.