Cure for the Common Breakup (8 page)

“A
ll right, ladies, it's campfire night.” Marla, ever the nurturing den mother, rounded up the bed-and-breakfast guests at nightfall. “Grab your breakup debris and follow me. Theo usually gets the fire going, but he left for poker night, so we'll have to do it ourselves.” She led the group out of the lobby and down to the starlit beach, where a circle of charred rocks surrounded a pile of twigs and logs. “Any volunteers?”

“I'll give it a try. All those years of Girl Scout camp are finally going to pay off.” A stunning woman with dark skin, cropped black hair, and cheekbones to die for stepped forward holding a wedding gown. “Silk chiffon is good kindling, don't you think?”

“Silk chiffon is perfect.” Marla handed out sweaters and blankets while the woman tossed the white dress into the fire pit. “We've had problems with certain fabrics over the years—acetate, anything polyester—but silk burns beautifully.” She produced a can of starter fluid and sprinkled a few drops on the gown. Then she handed a pack of matches to the gown's owner. “Whenever you're ready.”

The guests gathered together, whooping and clapping as the woman lit a match and tossed it into the fire pit. The crumpled dress ignited with a whooshing sound. Someone produced a flask and started passing it around.

Summer stayed on the sidelines.

“Who's next?” Marla helped herself to a sip from the flask. “Don't be shy!”

The flames leaped higher as the guests piled on their unwanted mementos. Some of these were obvious reminders of failed relationships: engagement photos, love letters, anniversary cards. But some objects held meaning known only to their owners: a take-out menu, a carved wooden elephant, an old-school cassette tape that melted amid billows of acrid black smoke.

“Dagnabbit,” Marla said as she moved upwind. “I forgot the marshmallows.”

“I'll get them,” Summer said, thinking about the Hefty bag up in her room. “Be back in a second.” She ran to the inn and scooped up the scandalous lingerie she'd packed in her carry-on.

In her haste to incinerate all that satin and lace, she forgot to stop at the kitchen for marshmallows.

“That's okay, honey.” Marla gave her a little sideways hug when she returned. “We do this three times a week. We'll roast marshmallows next time.”

The lingerie burned quickly, as flimsy and frail as newsprint, and Summer found her mood sinking even lower while she watched the delicate material go up in smoke. As if it never existed.

“Let me guess,” said the guest who'd torched her wedding gown. “Those belonged to the other woman.”

“Are those actual garter belts?” Another woman made a noise of disapproval. “Lord have mercy—don't they just scream ‘affair'? Well, it's easy to run around in sexy lingerie when you're not working full-time and raising two kids.”

“No, they're mine.” Summer sighed. “I wear that stuff every day.” She glanced down at her drab sundress, which she'd paired with a boring beige bra. “At least, I used to.”

The first woman gasped in outrage. “And he cheated on you anyway? Just goes to show—”

“He didn't cheat on me,” Summer said softly. “He just . . . left.”

“Are you sure?” The rest of the inn guests crowded around to put their two cents in. “Just because he won't admit to it doesn't mean he's not cheating.”

“You've got to check his phone records, his texts, his laptop. . . .”

“I'm sure.” Summer rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “He was planning to propose, but then he changed his mind.”

“But why?”

“He didn't love me enough. And he knew it. So he left.” And there it was: the unvarnished, unbearable truth. No righteous indignation, no sordid affair. She had been loved, and she had been found lacking.

“Don't look so sad,” the other guests murmured. “You'll find someone else.”

“Someone better.”

“Someone who will appreciate a woman who wears thigh-highs every day.”

“In fact, let's find him right now. There's a wine bar down by the boardwalk. We're all going over there after we finish up here.”

“Come with us! It'll be fun!”

“Thanks, but I think I'm done for the night.” Summer hunched into her oversize sundress.

“It's Friday night! Come on—a girl who has stockings like that knows how to have a good time on a Friday night.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Summer said, feeling more lethargic by the minute.

“Are you sure? Lots of men come to town on the weekends. Hot men. Single men.”

“One glass of wine,” the wedding-dress pyromaniac cajoled her.

“You only have to drink half.” The women swept her up in their camaraderie, alternately laughing and wiping away tears that they blamed on the smoke.

A few days ago, Summer wouldn't have been able to imagine herself in this state. She hadn't stayed home on a Friday night since she was grounded in high school—and even then, she'd found a way to sneak out of the house.

She was a good-time girl. That was why people liked her. That was how she compensated for everything she lacked.

“Fine.” Cheers broke out as she relented. “I'll have half a glass. But you guys are buying.”

—

If Barbie hired Hello Kitty to decorate her dream house, the result would be the Whinery.

The bar's interior was done up in various shades of pink, accented with black iron tables and chairs. The glossy black bar top was dotted with little silver bowls filled with candy. Dartboards (the cork dyed a lovely magenta) lined the back wall, and patrons had adorned these with photos of various exes. Soft, warm light emanated from frosted-glass sconces along the walls, and a crystal-bedecked chandelier hung just inside the entrance.

The place was packed with heartbreak tourists, and the ambience bounced between sorority sleepover and speed dating. A few intrepid men wandered among the throngs of newly single women, trying out pickup lines that were met with either indulgent laughter or blistering scorn. A dozen local residents kicked back in one corner, sipping wine and watching the drama unfold.

Summer's group split up as soon as they stepped in the door. Some of the women veered toward the dance floor, some headed back to play darts, and some made a beeline for a very,
very
handsome man holding court on the other side of the bar.

Summer wove her way through the throng until she reached the bar, where she was greeted by an athletic, snub-nosed bartender, who slung the pink-striped dish towel over her shoulder and offered a handshake. “You must be Summer. I'm Jenna.”

“Hi.” Bewildered, Summer shook hands. “How did you . . . ?”

“Rumor mill is always churning in Black Dog Bay. I heard you took on Mimi Sinclair.”

Summer peered at the wine varietals listed on the chalkboard above the bar. “It really wasn't that big a deal.”

“It's not a big deal—it's a huge deal. Taking on Mimi Sinclair means your first drink is on the house. It also means you get to call the tune.” Jenna gestured to the stereo speakers blaring in the corners. “Is there anything specific you'd like to hear?”

Summer shrugged. “What're my options?”

“We have every breakup anthem you could want. Except ‘I Will Survive.'” Jenna clenched her jaw. “My last nerve is going to snap if I hear that song one more time.” She pulled up an iPod and scrolled through the selections. “What are you in the mood for? We've got pop: ‘Villa in Portugal' by Pursuit of Happiness, ‘Irreplaceable' by Beyoncé, Alanis Morissette's entire
Jagged Little Pill
album. Then there's country: ‘You Lie' by the Band Perry, ‘My Give a Damn's Busted' by Jo Dee Messina. And of course there's always the classics: ‘You're So Vain,' ‘These Boots Were Made for Walking,' and my personal favorite, ‘Fist City.' What's your poison?”

Summer sank back on the tall iron stool. “I've never heard ‘Fist City,' but I think I need to.”

“Excellent choice. It's Loretta Lynn at her finest.” Jenna punched a few buttons, and the crowd cheered as twangy guitar notes opened the song.

“I guess I'll have a glass of Shiraz,” Summer said.

“Nope. You need the Cure for the Common Breakup.” Jenna grinned and explained, “It's our specialty drink. Pairs perfectly with chocolate and mood swings.”

At the mention of chocolate, Summer started digging through the nearest silver candy bowl. “Ooh, do you have any M&M's?”

“I might.” Jenna rummaged under the counter and came up with a snack-size bag. “Your wish is granted.”

Summer ripped open the wrapping and poured the chocolate candies directly into her mouth. “I'm never leaving this bar.”

“We get that a lot.” Jenna sang along with Loretta as she lined up a bottle of champagne, a bottle of vermouth, and an orange. “The secret to this drink is, everything needs to be fresh.”

“Even the ice?”

“Everything.” Jenna got to work with an old-timey glass citrus juicer. “This drink is all about fresh starts. No tainting the future with the past.” She filled the glass with ice, then uncorked the vermouth. She layered in the squeezed orange juice, then the champagne, and topped it all off with a straw and a festive twist of orange peel.

“Here's to new beginnings.”

But Summer had to sit back and admire the drink first. “It's so pretty!”

“Yeah, plus it's symbolic. Looks like a sunrise, right? It's a new dawn. New day. All that.”

“Wow.” Summer laughed. “That's, like, so deep.”

“Totally. I'm Tolstoy with a tip jar.”

As Loretta Lynn wrapped up and the playlist queued up Travis Tritt's “Here's a Quarter,” Jenna leaned over and murmured, “Don't look now, but your evening just got a whole lot better.”

“What?”

Jenna nodded toward the very,
very
handsome man who had gotten to his feet and was now striding toward Summer.

“Here comes the other cure for the common breakup. Aka Jake Sorensen.”

J
ake Sorensen embodied everything Summer loved in a man: confidence, charm, classic good looks, and complete emotional detachment. She'd had a hundred dalliances with a hundred guys just like him all around the world. It was as if the universe had compiled a list of her known weaknesses and built a sex-god prototype to her exact specifications.

Yet all she felt as he approached her was annoyance.

The crowds in front of him parted. The women he left in his wake all but swooned.

When he reached her side, he planted his hand next to hers on the bar top and opened with, “I've been watching you since you walked in. I can't take my eyes off you.”

Summer glanced at the bevy of halter-topped hopefuls he'd abandoned on the other side of the bar. “What a disappointment for your fan club.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “I'm Jake.”

She tilted her head and took in the broad shoulders, the thick, tousled hair, the smoldering sensuality in those dark eyes. “Let me guess: You're the designated rebound guy around here.”

His smile got even more rakish.

“You sit there in your corner, all brooding and inscrutable, and wait for the ladies to swarm. You show them a good time, they keep you entertained for the weekend, and then you send them back home with a story to tell. Everyone's happy—no muss, no fuss, no messy entanglements.” Summer raised one eyebrow. “Right?”

He paused, regarding her with renewed interest. “You disapprove?”

“Not at all.” Summer popped another piece of chocolate into her mouth. “Everyone needs a hot rebound after a bad breakup, and I'm sure you're a delightful palate cleanser.”

The smile returned, but this time, it was genuine. “I've cleansed a few palates in my day.”

“Well, good for you. You're providing a valuable community service.” She offered him a miniature 3 Musketeers bar. “But I'd assume that in a bar like this in a town like this, getting the girl has got to be ridiculously easy.”

“Fish in a barrel.” Jake took her hand in his. “Dance with me.”

“If you insist.” Summer slammed back the rest of her drink and let him lead her out to the floor. As he settled his hands on her hips and she looped her arms around his neck, she realized that their bodies fit together perfectly. He looked good. He smelled good. He felt good. The sex would no doubt be phenomenal.

And still . . . nothing.

“Something wrong?” His brow creased as she blinked up at him.

“Yeah, something's wrong. You're all hot and swarthy and lickable.”

His hands drifted lower on her hips. “You think I'm hot and lickable?”

“Please.” She rolled her eyes. “You know it. I know it. Everyone in this bar knows it.”

He moved even closer and whispered into her ear, “Thanks.”

She pulled back a few inches. “And yet, I have no urge to lick you.”

“Ouch.”

She slid her hands down from his neck to his elbows. “Well, do
you
want to lick
me
?”

A spark of humor replaced all the raw smolder in his eyes. “Eh.”

“See? We're even.”

His frown deepened. “I do want to lick you, in the abstract. But somehow . . .”

She threw up her hands. “I know. We're perfect for each other. We should be ripping each other's clothes off right now!”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his jaw. “In the abstract.”

She raced back to the bar and signaled to Jenna for a refill. “Oh my God. What's wrong with me?”

Jake stayed right by her side. “Nothing's wrong with you.”

“Something's definitely wrong with me.” She dabbed at her forehead with a pink cocktail napkin. “When the going gets tough, I have ill-advised flings with lickable men who don't call me the next day. Men like you. That's what I do! That's who I am!”

“Maybe you've evolved,” he suggested.

“I
highly
doubt that.” Summer shook her head and took a sip of her drink.

Jake gave her another once-over. “I'm guessing you get hit on a lot.”

“Well, not to brag, but . . . yeah, pretty much. I'm a flight attendant. Goes with the territory.”

“But you're here in the breakup capital of the world?”

“Yeah.” She stiffened. “We don't need to get into all the details.”

“Listen. A drunken hookup with some man-whore is not going to do anything for you right now.”

“Excuse me? Did you just refer to yourself as a man-whore?”

He leaned back against the bar and scanned the crowd. “Trust me. I've spent enough time with enough women at this bar to know what's what. You don't need a guy like me. You need a guy like . . .” He inclined his head, indicating a man who had just walked in the door. “Him.”

The man looked up, and Summer recognized Dutch Jansen. He looked even more rugged and masculine against all the frilly pink.

“
Him?
No. I ran down his roses in cold blood,” Summer said. “That guy hates me.”

“But you're looking at him.”

“Oh, really? And how, exactly, am I looking at him?”

Jake flashed a diabolical grin. “You know. I know. Everyone in this bar knows.”

Summer jerked her thumb toward the other side of the bar. “Shouldn't you be heading back to your fan club?”

“Go talk to him,” Jake said. “Dance with him the way you just danced with me.”

Summer laughed. “He can't
handle
the way I danced with you.”

“Go on. Trial by fire.”

“So you want me to, what? Just go over there and, like, ensnare him in my web of seduction? Like I'm the designated rebound girl?”

“I dare you.”

Summer stared at the back of Dutch's head, debating. She did want to talk to him again. . . .

Jake paid for her drink and told her, “Look. Being with me is like falling down into a ditch. But being with him is like climbing Everest.”

She scrunched her nose. “Climbing Everest isn't as big a deal these days. It's swarming with tourists, like Walmart on Black Friday.”

“Okay, then, it's like climbing the K2. That tough enough for you?”

She took a deep breath, then shook her head. “I am not going to go dazzle some defenseless man with my feminine wiles—which are considerable, by the way—”

“I have no doubt.”

“—just to make me feel better about myself. That is selfish. That is wrong. That is—”

Jake lowered his voice. “He's looking at you, too.”

Summer's hand flew to her chest. “He is? Shut up. He is not.”

“Go get him. K2, baby. Belay on.”