The Secret Recipe for Moving On Karen Bischer (read my book .txt) 📖

Now Luke’s eyes bug out. “The way she was looking at me? Seriously?”

“And then there was today’s fantastic Buzz item about Greta being done dirty.”

“Done dirty? We broke up mutually.”

“Or so you think,” I say.

If it’s possible, Luke’s face has grown even redder. “Why do you care so much about what that stupid site says? You know Jared’s an asshole.”

“Maybe because the last time I was the subject of it, all the information was true,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Jesus, so you think I’m a liar now?” Luke says, shaking his head. “Listen, Ellie, I know you’ve been burned before, but I don’t know how to make you believe me just because you can’t move on.”

The fact that he calls me Ellie surprisingly stings. And how can he possibly be turning this around on me? “I’m not apologizing for looking out for myself after what happened with Hunter.”

Luke throws his hands up. “Well, maybe that’s your problem. You’re still living in your last relationship. And I guess maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore because I really don’t feel like paying for all the bullshit he dumped on you. If you don’t trust me, I don’t know what more I can do.” With that, he turns on his heel, flings the door open, and stomps back inside.

Five days. Is that a new record for a broken heart?

CHAPTER 18

I manage to fake normalcy pretty well the next day. I hang out with Alisha and the TV crew in the morning, eat lunch with Isaiah, and get through a group project in English without anyone being like, “Ellie, are you all right?” Probably because I now basically hold a PhD in not crying in public.

I guess some life skills you don’t learn in home ec.

I desperately wanted to tell Jodie about this last night, but she had Chinese class, then said she had to go to some dinner with her parents. So at lunch, I finally text her, Any chance you want to meet up at Starbucks later?

A few minutes later, she replies. Sorry, I have to work today.

And that’s it. No rain check. No “come meet me while I’m on my break,” which I’ve done before. Ever since the USC thing, it’s felt like she doesn’t want to deal with anything—including me. Like, we haven’t even seen each other in person since the football game. I’m about to reply with a sad-face emoji and “I miss you,” but wonder if that would make her feel guilty. I don’t want to do that, so I don’t reply.

To ignore the growing feeling of agitation in my stomach, I scroll through The Buzz several times, and there are no more thinly veiled mentions of me being a home-wrecker or Luke being a lying lothario or Greta being tragic and unbraided on the curb. Greta hasn’t sent anyone to kill me, either, so that’s a bonus.

But I know home ec is going to be a challenge because I’m not sure how Luke is going to act. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to act, but as angry as I am, and as many dagger-eyes I want to give him, I have to keep it bottled up. And that just makes me angry with myself. I mean, I’d just gotten to a place where this class was tolerable—likeable, even—and now I’ve gone and screwed it all up and I can’t act any differently because I don’t want Isaiah and A.J. to catch on. Because I’m not going to jeopardize our position in the class rankings, especially when we’re so close to first place.

“What’s with all the canned goods?” Isaiah says, noting that our table is stacked with cans of beans and vegetables and tuna. The Bukowskis’ table has a bunch of cleaning supplies on it. The Bakers’ table is stacked with toothpaste and moisturizer.

Before I can answer, Luke comes in and takes a seat with a neutral “hey” to everyone. I don’t make eye contact when I say it back. I do, however, make the mistake of noticing that he’s wearing a royal-blue, long-sleeve shirt that probably brings out his eyes to a crazy degree, the fabric hugging his arms and chest in all the right places.

He probably did this on purpose to torture me. To show me what I’m missing. As if I’m the one who masqueraded as a nice guy and lied about not breaking up with their significant other. I force myself to stare at my hands.

And then Mrs. Sanchez saves my life.

“Okay, everyone, today we’re going to organize all the PTA donations for the St. Mark’s homeless shelter.” She gestures at our tables and then at several large boxes on the floor next to her. “Since this isn’t our usual class assignment, I’m going to break up the routine a bit and put you in different groups. There won’t be any points for this.”

A.J. and Isaiah both slump in their seats. Luke stares at the boxes, so I have no idea what he’s thinking. I fight really hard to not look relieved, but seriously, this is fantastic news.

“I’ll give you a slip with a category on it, and then you’ll join everyone else who draws that category,” Mrs. Sanchez says, extending a small brown bag toward my table.

Isaiah and A.J. both pull out slips marked “toiletries.” Luke gets canned goods. I hold my breath as I pull out a slip marked “cleaning products.” I’m so relieved I smile at Mrs. Sanchez, a silent thank-you for sparing me an afternoon of awkwardness.

“All right, cleaning products!” Hunter whoops from behind me.

No.

I spin around in my seat to confirm that we’re in the same group, and, sure enough, Hunter is waving around a slip identical to mine. Brynn is frowning at hers, so I’m guessing that means she’s not in our group.

Before I have a chance to ask Isaiah or A.J. to switch with me, they’ve wandered over to the table that has the stacks of toothpaste.