How He Broke My Heart

What made me this way? What made me like this? Them, maybe.

Today is my eighteenth birthday. So far, all I've learned is that nothing changes and that everything still sucks and that being an adult, technically an adult, doesn't make me feel any more powerful. All I have is a party full of strangers and a shortbread cookie shaped as a heart. Now not everyone is a stranger—my mother and father are upstairs monitoring by sound—but I go to school with these people. Or I went to school with them. Really, it's only been a day since graduation and not everyone has wiped their brains clear of these horrible memories, so we still remember each other.

I've been sitting in the corner for an hour. People gave up trying to include me after twenty minutes and let me be. Really, they care more about the free food, uncovered alcohol, and possible shots at sex more than my birthday. An opened bottle of tequila and a half-drunken bottle of vodka with a large pack of beers sit in the garage, and if anyone wants a drink they have to go in there and sip quietly. Marissa drank half of the vodka and is now flirting with her boyfriend in the corner opposite of mine. He looks pretty pleased because he just may have his shot at finally sealing the deal. She wanted to wait and obviously, he didn't, and the only reason I know this is because I sit with her at lunch.

I've shamelessly eaten my fifth shortbread cookie, so I glance out the window behind me instead of getting up to fetch another one. The pool lights are on, but no one is outside. It's not like it's cold or anything; it's June and beautiful at night. My mother turned on the light just in case anyone wanted to swim, but I didn't tell anyone to bring a swimsuit.

Getting up, I push past the few people in my pathway to the back door.

My life isn't bad. It's been pretty okay. I have a few friends, or people that call me their friend, and both my parents love me. I had a dog, though he died last week from cancer—I didn't even know dogs got cancer (okay, that's a lie)—and now I'm just realizing my life hasn't been great. It's not bad. But it's not great. And maybe I sound like a whiny teenage girl, but that's because I am a whiny teenage girl who can at least admit that to herself.

The only thing keeping me from running off again is the fact that we're leaving for my aunt’s beach house tomorrow, and I like the beach house, so I don't want to miss it. She's a bit of a hippie, but the town is nice. It's far better than this cesspool of hormones and two-faced text messages, so I plan on laying on the beach until I roast. So what? I think I'm better than everyone but worse than everyone at the same time, and I'm sure everyone secretly hates me. I'm just that girl in the corner who thinks she's so mature that no one understands the language she's speaking.

Sometimes I hate people like me. But other times I couldn't care enough to do anything about it. I don't have all the answers to life; I'm just trying to make it by.

Sure, I realized a lot of crappy things today, but one good thing I learned is that no one cares about me. I don't mean it in a depressing, self-hatred kind of way, but a this-is-real-life kind of way. My mother would probably die for me, and my father is caring, but besides them, no one really cares what I do in life. They'll be dead in less than forty years, and when a parent is old, they expect you to no longer need them.

I'm not saying I need them; I'm just saying that no one cares. My future boss doesn't care if I have rent payments if he fires me, my future ex-husband doesn't care what I do when he has a young piece of meat to screw, and everyone else is only worried about themselves. So what? I'm probably a pessimist. It doesn't bother me that I am.

My feet meet the cement patio as I slip through the back door. It's glass, but for some reason, I act as if no one can see me anymore. There are crickets, cars in the distance, and muffled music from inside, but all I hear is the beating of my heart.

I guess I'm scared of the future. It's not easy being a pessimist and hoping for the best.

I stand in front of the pool with my toes curling over the edge. There are cookie crumbs on my shirt and an ugly temporary tattoo of a bird on my thigh that I hope washes off when I do this. Marissa said it was cute but it's ugly and I hate her.

When I jump in, the splash causes everyone to turn to the large windows. Marissa flocks to the glass and presses up against it. I hear her knock on the glass and call my name. "Emma! Emma, what are you doing!"

She sounds like a man from underwater, but I can tell it's her. She's the only one who would ask what I'm doing when it's obvious. A person can't kill themselves on purpose in a pool by jumping in unless they purposely hit their head and pass out. So, I don't know why everyone immediately decides that I'm trying to kill myself.

I jumped into the middle of the pool like a normal person, well, a normal person with clothes on.

To make a long story short, my parents rushed down and kicked everybody out. They got me out of the pool and nearly took me to the hospital. After convincing them that I was fine, they found the alcohol in the garage and grounded me for the night, which is pointless but made them feel powerful.

In the morning they wake me up to leave for Aunt Wendy's beach house, and the entire ride there I think about how stupid they are. Well, they aren't completely stupid, just terrible at punishments.

My phone is decorated with text messages from the partygoers about my suicide attempt. I don't bother answering any of them as I will hopefully never see them again. I wonder if they'll think that I died. Would I care if they thought I was dead? Is that a dark thought or just a whiny-teenage-girl thought? I wonder if our doorstep will be cluttered with dead flowers when we get home in two months. I won't mix that up with caring, though. Giving flowers to a dead person is just the norm, you don't actually have to care about them to give them flowers.

The drive to my aunt’s house is the same every year but not very repetitive for some reason. It takes about four hours to get there yet feels like a whole other planet when we reach the town. It's like some heaven on earth. No one is on their phones; everyone is enjoying their company and the scenery. The beach is close enough to chuck a rock into the water from the road, and the seawall gives me nostalgia. I always climb over it and make my way down the rocks below when the tide is out. Shells litter the sand and I collect them.

I used to really like shells, and now they're just shells, but I gather them anyway because the guest bedroom at the beach house has shells everywhere from years of vacations here. My Aunt doesn't get rid of them. She doesn't have many visitors, so she keeps that bedroom just for me.

I remember my first love, here. Every time I come here there seems to be a boy that catches my eye, or I catch theirs. But the first time, I was fifteen. His name was Hunter, and he was a year older than me, so the fact that he liked me made me feel extra pretty. I didn't know much back then, nearly nothing about real romance and how much it sucks. The idea of having a boyfriend was simply exciting and fresh, and I just wanted to be his girlfriend. When you're fifteen, becoming someone's girlfriend isn't the hard part, it's the actual relationship that takes the life out of you.

It's the reality of teenage boys that could make a girl want to give up on love altogether.

I met Hunter at the beach, got his name and age and useless information before seeing him again at the boulders. The boulders are at the end of the beach where the teenagers like to hang out and be delinquents. At fifteen, it was my first time venturing to the boulders, and I had only gone because he said he was going to be there. Like its name, the place is just full of boulders, and no one really knows how they got there, but kids like to spray paint them and the seawater eats away at the bottoms. Hunter was my first kiss and it happened on top of one of the boulders. Since we kissed, we were now dating. It was simple but dangerous.

I was known as Hunter's girlfriend that summer, and there's a lot that came with the title. A lot I didn't expect.

When we arrive at the house, my mother wakes me up, and I carry my suitcase to the front door, up the porch steps. My Aunt welcomes us in a rush—she always seems rushed for some reason—but I immediately head to my bedroom and forget about everyone. It smells the same. That salty, rustic, wooden smell that makes my heart feel light in my chest. I place my suitcase down by the door and wander in. There are the shells, of course. They line the chipped windowsills and cover the top of the dresser. I pick up a few and feel them in my hands before sitting down on the bed with my favorite one to look out at the beach.

It's a conch shell. Broken, but not enough to make me hate it. The beach looks very welcoming as usual, and I have an urge to run into it. My parent’s and my aunt’s voices play over and over again in the background as I walk to the window, getting a better look at my surroundings. I can see the tip of the neighbor's house. An elderly couple lives there. I remember that.

A memory pops into my head suddenly, and I ditch the window for the closet. I open the door and fall to my knees, scanning the bottom of the wall for my carvings. I find them by the corner. 'HJ.' 'MT.' 'KL.' All in a row. They're all here.

Hunter Jackson, Milo Talker, and Kaden Lane.

I would mutter 'good times,' but they weren't good at all. Teenage boys are terrible. They make you feel special, use you, then dump you. It's like they're born with the formula embedded in their brains. Girls are hopeless, though. It can't be all the boy's fault. It takes two to ruin a relationship, I think. The girls let themselves feel special and stay throughout the using because some of us fear we will never love again.

Nothing is used more casually and more seriously among girls than the phrase 'forever alone.' Every girl has said it at least once, even if it was a joke or cried out while sitting in their bathtub with mascara smeared underneath their eyes.

If a girl never fell in love, she would be the luckiest one out of all of us. Once you're in, you crave the feelings. It's like a weird drug that we can't get enough of. It hurts us, it really hurts us, but we keep trying to get more. Girls have always been a generation of drug addicts, and the drug is boys. The difference between girls and boys is that girls revolve their lives around one drug. They're completely satisfied with that drug. But boys, they want it all. They want to try everything at once. They want to binge on one, then another, then another, not becoming addicted at all; they just feel the sensations then move on.

I believe that three drugs have brought me to my lowest point and those are Hunter, Milo, and Kaden.

There’s a knock on my door and I scramble from the ground just in time. My mother peeks in and finds me standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. "Oh, hi. I just wanted to remind you about Sally. Didn't she say that she’d have a job for you when you got here?"

"Yeah, I'll go to the shop now. Thanks."

She smiles before leaving, giving me the same motherly smile that she always does. My mother believes I'm a good person deep down. She knows I've done stupid things, but only half of them. If she knew everything, I don't think she'd like me as much.

I make my way to the center of town, which only takes a few minutes. The beach house is only a couple blocks away from the t-shirt shop, and when I arrive, I take a minute to lean over the sea wall and look down. The tide is making its way back in, and by night the water will be covering most of the rocks. The afternoon is almost over, so most people at the beach are beginning to pack up for the day.

I wander into the shop and scan for any person at all. "Sally?" I call, heading to the back where the cash register is. There's a clear container sitting on the counter beside the cash register. It's full of small keychains. Some are surfboards, some are flip flops, and I spot only one turtle. I pick up the turtle and drop it back down for no reason at all. Mindless actions come with no warning.

"Emma? Hey, I'm glad you're back."

I glance up to see Sally coming out of the back room. "Yeah, I just stopped by to find out about the job you had for me."

Sally is a middle-aged woman who's permanently tanned and blonder than Barbie. She always wears this small necklace with a black stone on it, and it takes away from the sunspots on her chest. "Of course. I've been saving you a position since you were fifteen and asked to work here, right? Well, it's finally time. I won't have you on the heat press, but you'll help people find a shirt or hoodie they like and the transfer design they want. Just walk around, greet people as they come in, ask if they need help, grab the transfers from the back when they're ready and hand it to whoever is working on the press. Usually, it'll be Brandon these days." Her eyes drift then shoot back to me. "But I'll make tomorrow your training day if you're ready? It's a Monday so it shouldn't be too busy."

I nod. "Okay. What time should I be here?"

"Uh, let's make it noon. We usually open later on weekdays. By noon we should be in full swing."

I nod again, somewhat excited for this. It's true, I have wanted to work here since I was fifteen. I have a collection of clothes from this shop all with the same design on it. Sally thinks it's weird of me to only want the sunset design, but she began to like me for it. Even now when I look up at the wall—where all the designs are displayed—my eyes are immediately engrossed in the sunset transfer in the top right corner. It's simple. It's a large, warm colored sun slowly melting into nothing.

"Okay, I'll be here at twelve then. See you tomorrow."

"Have a nice night," Sally calls as I exit the shop.

I wake up at eight in the morning and wait anxiously for noon to arrive as if it is a train carrying my long lost lover. I've never been very social or charismatic, and I'm not looking forward to helping people, all I want is to sit in the highchair by the entrance and look out at the beach. Maybe I won't be the best employee, but I'll be pretty happy. Does that make me a bad person? Selfish? Probably.

When I was fifteen, before I met Hunter, I saw a girl sitting in the chair by the entrance of that shop as I walked by. She was beautiful. Young, alive, fresh-looking. She was maybe eighteen or nineteen, and she would always sit there and read a magazine or some romance novel. People would ask her for help, and she would point them in the direction they needed to go, but wouldn't do much more unless Sally was in. Most of the time, Sally isn't in. I've learned from observation that whoever is running the heat press is in charge.

I named her Hannah, which is weird, but I don't really care. She had black, long, wavy hair that she would braid in random spots and leave hanging. Her skin was tan because she was always sitting in the sun, and she had a tattoo of a Hawaiian flower on her ankle. She was some odd role model to me. We never spoke, she never knew of my existence, but I thought she must be the coolest girl in the entire world. Remind you, I was fifteen and depressed. But I've decided to live out my childhood dreams and be the girl in the highchair at the front of the shop.

When eleven thirty comes around, I decide to leave and be early. This may be the only time I show Sally that I'm a responsible employee, so it may as well be my first impression. The beach seems to be as crowded as it will get on a Monday. Not many adults fill the sand, but mostly teens and college kids and a few elderly people lay about.

I don't stop at the seawall today but walk straight across the street and head into the shop. There are two or three people looking at clothes or pointing to designs on the wall, and I move past them as I reach the register. Sally is there, leaning against the wall, waiting for the people to decide while chatting with some younger guy. She promptly notices me and lifts up. "Hey, Emma, you're early, I like that. Oh, and you're already in uniform."

I look down at my black hoodie. I suppose the employee uniform is anything from the shop because right in the middle is my orange sunset. "Uh, yeah. This one is my favorite so... so I thought I'd wear it." Talking is hard, as usual. "What do you want me to, uh, do first?"

She motions for me to come around the counter and I do so. "This is Brandon. He's on the press. I think I already told you that, though."

"You did."

My eyes peer up at the guy for a split second before returning to Sally. She must be expecting a 'hello' or 'nice to meet you' from me, but I cross my arms and squeeze myself. Brandon smiles at Sally, and Sally says, "Alright. I'll show you around the back at how we organize the transfers. Brandon, you take care of everyone."

I follow Sally through the back door and have one last look at Brandon. He's blonde and his hair is short and curly, he looks like a surfer, and I immediately decide that I don't like him. He's too pretty. Everyone probably loves him and his body and his possible surfing skills, so I'm not going to. He has one of those smiles, one that makes girls feel special.

Sally talks on and on about the organization of the back room. My mind can't comprehend it all, and halfway, I lose interest. I saw the chair when I walked it. The red paint is chipped to heck and there's some rough blanket thrown over it and it's calling to me. "Whenever we get new shipments, just take the boxes back here and put them in their slots. You're welcome to leave when you're on break to get coffee or whatever. Brandon's break is an hour before yours, so when he's gone, you'll have to do the pressing. I'll have him explain that tomorrow though since I'm here today. We can head back to the main room, and you can get comfortable talking to the customers."

As soon as we reach the shopping area, a young girl and her mother walk in, and Sally urges me to give it a shot. I clench my jaw and walk over, knowing I'll have to be nice. "Hi, welcome to The Shirt Shack, is there anything I can help you with?"

The woman smiles and looks at me, holding her daughter's hand. "Oh, no. We're just looking."

"Oh, alright," don't be awkward, "just let me know if you guys need anything." I even throw in a smile, and she nods. My chest is tight, and I turn back to Sally, rushing over as if I'm currently in a war zone and behind the counter is a safe haven.

"That was good. You weren't pushy and respected their space. I think you might be a natural."

Sallies too nice. She'll encourage anyone even if they stuttered and tripped and forgot where they were when talking to a customer. I can tell she's not one to really criticize, only give sweet improvement ideas. "Okay. Should I just keep doing that?"

"Yeah, oh, and I'll show you how to work the register."

Brandon glances over at us many times throughout the day as Sally teaches me. I always look away when we accidentally make eye contact but find myself looking back again.

Sally sends me home after training and tells me to come back tomorrow at nine for my first shift.

On my way home, I walk past a group of teenagers, maybe a few years younger than me. One of them reminds me of Hunter, so I pick up my pace.

The night after my first kiss, the kiss on top of the boulder, Hunter asked me to meet him at the beach at midnight. I felt like someone edgy and rebellious since I had to sneak out of the house, and I eventually found him by the water. It was difficult since he didn't tell me anywhere specific, only the beach.

We were awkward at first, hesitant to kiss, to talk, to laugh. He was more comfortable than I was and must have decided to dive right in because he asked me if I was a virgin. I tried to laugh it off and say yes in a way that made me look comfortable, but on the inside, my heart felt like it was on fire. He told me that he wasn't, and all I thought to say was okay. After that, he started asking me a bunch of questions. Have you ever dated anyone before? Was I your first kiss? Do you like kissing me? Do you want to kiss now? We kissed again and he added in his tongue. I squirmed a bit and couldn't figure out if he was bad at it or if I was.

The rising tide snuck up on us and I began telling him that I had to go soon. He wanted me to stay and told me how beautiful he thought I was. I blushed and shied away; a bubbly feeling rose up inside of me. He then asked if I touched myself. I stopped smiling then. I said no. He said he knew I was lying because everyone does it. I left.

That night I snuck back in and couldn't fall asleep. For some reason, he made me feel dirty. The way he said it made me feel as if what I had been doing was wrong.

In the morning, I make my way over to the shop again. The sun has already risen. I was the first one awake in the house at eight thirty. Aunt Wendy doesn't work anymore, and my mother is on vacation as she's a schoolteacher. My father will have to leave in two weeks, though. But he'll be back next month for another two weeks.

I felt very independent this morning. It felt as if I almost lived by myself. My phone has been dead since yesterday and I'm not going to bother charging it. I'm sure people are still asking if I'm dead or not, and I want to leave them guessing.

When I walk in, the only person around is Brandon. I was expecting this, though, as Sally said she wasn't going to be here. "Hey, ready for your first day?" He asks and I swallow. Brandon looks so inviting, like a piece of cheese on a mousetrap.

"Uh, yeah. I guess," I mumble.

"Sally wanted me to show you how to work the heat press if you're ready?"

I nod and make my way over to him. He stands in front of the press while I stand to his side. "Alright. You're going to open the press," he opens the press, "then you're going to set the temperature to three seventy-five," he reaches for the temperature knob and turns it, "the light will flash," the light flashes, "now you wait until it's heated." He looks to me and I look away. "So do you live here?"

I say, "not permanently."

"You're here for vacation then? Do you have a house down here for the summer?"

I know he's just trying to be friendly, but the last thing I want to do is answer his pointless questions. As he rambles, my mind wanders to the heat press. I wonder what it would feel like if someone accidentally got their hand heat pressed. "It's done," I say quickly, noticing the light turning on.

"Oh, okay. Now you're going to turn the knob back until the light turns off," he turns it back. "This is the pressure knob, but you won't really have to touch that. The timer is already set as well, so you just have to place their shirt on the plate with the design side facing up and set the transfer on it faced down. There's already a protective pad on it, so you won't have to cover the transfer with anything. So just close the press, start the timer," he points to a button on the side of the machine, "and when it goes off just press it again to stop it. Then just open the press and remove the shirt. After you peel the paper off you can hand it to the customer, just warn them that it may be hot."

"And check them out?" I ask, expecting that in this scenario I am alone.

He nods, turning off the heat and closing the press. "And usually, we keep the heat on if it's busy, but if it's slow you can turn it off."

"Okay."

We go our separate ways. I head to the chair up front, and Brandon hangs back by the press. His sits up on the counter and stares down at his phone or sweeps the floor or brings out new clothes. Two or three people walk in before noon and one of them gets a shirt. I retrieve the transfer of their choice and bring it to Brandon with the shirt. He presses it, I give it to the guy and check him out, he leaves, and I return to my post.

At noon, more people come in and out, so I stay on the floor helping the customers, grabbing transfers, checking to see if we have the right size of shirt or jacket, and handing things to Brandon so he can press them. Every now and then he'll ask me how I'm doing, I'll say good, and he'll give me the garment. At two, things slow down, and Brandon goes on break. I sit up front in my chair and watch as he heads down to the beach. I find it odd. I thought he would go get food or head to the back of the shop, but he meets a group of people down by the water. Then he plays volleyball with a few of them. In my head, I make fun of it, but really, I'm just jealous that I can't have friends like he has friends.

I can hear their yelling and laughing from my seat, and I try to look away, but my eyes keep drifting back to the game. They aren't taking it completely seriously, but all of them know how to play. Everyone seems to like Brandon as I expected. He looks like a golden boy down there, blonde hair bouncing, muscles for the girls to gawk at, a smile to make them melt. It makes me hate him even more. I'm becoming some summertime grinch.

When it's my turn for a break, Brandon comes back and I walk down the street, turning into a sushi place that I remember liking very much. It's casual, quaint, and I take my food outside to sit. One order of California rolls and I'm sitting up on the seawall, my feet dangling freely as I eat. The half of the beach that stays mostly dry is still packed with people while the lower half is running barren. I contemplate not going back to work. I think about what would happen if I just went home and never go back. I think I'm dying on the inside, at a faster pace than everyone else.

I think my heart is too bruised and beaten up to even watch other people be happy.

Other people seem to react to life differently than I do, and I wish I could react like them. Brandon would ask me how I'm doing, and I would joke about the little boy who kept falling over by the women's shirts.

Why can't it be like that? Why do I have to be so hurt and broken and hopeless that talking to me becomes a chore? Why can't I just have fun at my own birthday party and not jump in the pool like a lunatic? Because of them, maybe.