“Checking if you have a fever.”
I pushed her hand away. “The only thing making me sick is staring at these books all day long. With their stupid, false happy endings. It’s a scam. The entire book industry is a gigantic scam, Cassie. Why doesn’t anyone talk about this? How is this legal? They’re feeding vulnerable readers lies about love and life and we’re buying into it like mindless consumers.”
Cassie stood up. “Amy!” My mom appeared in the doorway. She was obviously eavesdropping. “You need to take it from here,” Cassie said before walking out of the room.
Then I had an idea. I ran to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets until I found the box of garbage bags, the extra-large ones my mom uses for recycling.
“What is she doing?” Cassie mumbled.
“No idea.”
I ignored the two of them and marched back to my bedroom. Then I shut the door and took as many books as I could off the shelves and threw them into the bag. I started off with the cheesiest ones, the ones with the happiest endings and the promises of eternal love. Yuck. Then I did the same with the ones that had made me cry. Then the ones that I didn’t really like but still read anyway because it was physically impossible for me to stop reading a book halfway. When the bag was full and half the bookshelf was empty, I tied the top, lifted it into my arms, and walked out of my apartment.
“Where are you taking those?” my mom called after me.
“Don’t follow me!” I yelled back. “Either of you!”
By some miracle, they didn’t. I guess there was something about a slightly sleep-deprived teenager shoving books into a bag that scared people off.
I marched to the elevator, pressed the button to the lobby, and waited. My arms were beginning to ache from the weight of all these books, but I didn’t care. It was nice to feel that weight somewhere other than my heart.
I was sitting with my feet dangling over the edge of the bridge, the water lapping beneath me. It made me think of the night I spent at Lovers’ Lake with Brett. The kiss, the piggyback rides, the moonlight reflecting off the lake—it all seemed so perfect at the time.
Stupid books. Nothing prepared me for this.
The weird part was that my heart didn’t feel entirely broken. Not the way it had after the divorce. Now it was like, instead of the entire thing shattering, just one tiny little piece of it was missing. A subtle ache. But it was there all the same. And it still hurt.
It was my fault for getting my hopes up. Because before I met Brett, love was an idea I was fine reading about. It existed on pages, and that was okay because that was safe. Then I saw it begin to take shape between us. And I think part of me began to feel that maybe this entire idea of love wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe my parents just had a bad experience. Right? Maybe, for other people, it could actually work. Maybe Brett and I were two of those people it could work for.
With hindsight, I realized now I was wrong. I should have remained pessimistic and kept all the locks and chains around my heart.
Now there was only one thing left to do.
I reached into the bag and blindly chose a book. I didn’t even look at it, I just opened it to a random page, tore it out, then threw it into the water. I watched it float, then slowly move away. I breathed, counted to five, then threw the entire book in. Now it sank, right down to the very bottom until I could no longer see it. Good. I didn’t want to see it. Seeing was a reminder. I wanted it gone.
I grabbed another book and threw it into the water. Then another. And another. I sat there under the sun until the bag was half empty, the lake a little fuller. I was tearing through a book about a dying girl in Maine when Jenny appeared out of nowhere. She was standing beside me, breathing too loud. Or maybe I had gotten used to the quiet.
“God, Becca. What are you doing?” she asked. I ignored her and threw another one in. “You’re polluting the water.”
I threw another, then said, “Semi-broken hearts are selfish. They don’t care about things like pollution.”
Jenny sat beside me, her flip-flop-clad feet dangling over the edge. Her toenails were painted bright yellow. “I heard about you and Brett,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled. There was nothing else to say. I picked up another book and threw it in, not even bothering to look at the title.
Then Jenny held out her hand, palm toward the sky. I stared at it for a minute, then her smiling face. It made sense that she was so popular. She was beautiful, like that natural kind of beauty that made you wonder how it was even possible for someone to look like that. I searched her face, looking for the friend I used to know.
“Give me a book,” she said.
So I did. She scanned the cover, flipped it over a few times, then asked, “This is the one you were reading that morning. Right?”
I snorted. “The one you made fun of? No. This one’s different.”
“They all look the same. What’s the story?” she asked, gently tapping the book against her thigh.
“Isn’t it always about love?”
“I mean your story,” she corrected me. “When did you buy this? Why did you buy it?”
“I don’t remember,” I told her, “but I read this book to Brett once in his car.” I grabbed the book from her hand and threw it into the water. This time I watched it sink, the memory of that night drowning with it. “I know you probably think I’m being dramatic—”
“Stupid, actually.”
“—but this makes me feel better. These books were safe. Like this alternate, paper world where anything was possible. And after my parents’ divorce I gave up on love. I never wanted to fall into it or feel it because what was the point? These books let me feel it through other people. That way, I didn’t have to worry about being hurt. It sounds dumb, but they helped. They helped me when nothing else could.”
“So why throw them away?”
“Why do you care?” I asked, glancing up from the book in my lap to look at her. “We haven’t really been friends for a long time.”
Jenny shrugged, throwing another book in. “I know what it feels like to be alone. And that night, at the hotel, you looked like you could use someone to talk to. Not to mention I think you’re having some sort of breakdown right now.”
I ignored the last part. “Alone? You’re never alone. You’re always surrounded by your friends.” I left out the night at the marsh.
Jenny had this sad smile on her face when she reached for another book. She held it in her lap, playing with the page corners. “You know,” she said, “I used to think being popular was all that mattered. Having a lot of friends, being invited to parties, all of that shit. When I got my braces off before sophomore year and these”—she grabbed her chest—“finally grew in, people looked at me differently. Like I was now worthy of their attention or something. God, that sounds so superficial, and it was, but it felt really damn good. So I joined the cheerleading squad. I said yes when guys asked me on dates because what else was I supposed to do? I thought I was living this enviable life where everyone wanted to be me. And I was happy. But I was lonely, Becca. Because those people were my friends, but not like you once were.”
She threw the book over the bridge.