Heartthrobs Don’t Date Wallflowers (Texting the Boyband)

Chapter 1

one

My favorite part about my new room was the balcony. I had one in the old house too, but when I sat on that one, I couldn’t see my neighbors hanging out in their yard every night. And I probably wouldn’t have liked it if I could anyway, because at the old house, my neighbors hadn’t been the biggest boyband in the world.

My legs dangled off the side of the wood ledge, my face so smushed up against the railings that I would probably have red marks on them for an hour after I got up. Not that I would be leaving for a long time, because right now, my eyes were glued to the boys having a bonfire in the yard next door. It was totally embarrassing, and I would deny it to my grave, but for the two weeks I’d lived here, both of my Friday nights had ended exactly like this.

I wasn’t even a fan of the band. I didn’t scream-cry when they dropped a new single or make posts ranking their best haircuts or whatever super-fans did. I didn’t even know any of their names. But still… watching them was better than watching old show reruns alone in my room. It was like I had my own private reality show, except the stars lived next door to me and occasionally took their shirts off.

I cringed at myself. This was definitely not the vibe I wanted to give off. If my younger sister Poppy were here, she’d be dragging me back inside, telling me to stop being a total creep. But she was off at boarding school, probably going out to parties or whatever else went on there, while I was stuck here in a town where I knew nobody.

But who needed friends when I could just stalk my neighbors instead?

Gosh, that made me sound pathetic.

Was I really that pathetic?

My hand inched toward my phone, which was sitting precariously close to the edge of the balcony. When I put it there, I’d promised I wouldn’t touch it again. There was only one reason I'd be reaching for my phone right now, and it was the one reason I needed to avoid. I knew he wasn't going to answer the text. I never really expected him to answer, and yet I kept going back to that same stupid message thread, waiting for some sort of response. Some sort of acknowledgment.

Even though I had told him in that very last line not to say anything, told him that I'd blocked his number, it was a bold-faced lie. I had actually deleted his contact when I first found him with her under the bleachers. Right then and there, I deleted his existence from my phone—all his messages, his contact, his photos—and promised myself I was never going to reach out to him again.

But then today, I got hit with a second wind for some reason. Probably egged on by Poppy telling me what a piece of crap he was and that I was better off without him. So, I'd sent him one last text. And now it was just sitting there, nagging at me to pay attention to it. A reminder that I'd sunk low enough to text him back, and that he was making the choice not to answer me.

Unable to bear it anymore, I practically laid on my stomach so I could reach my phone and slid it back to myself, narrowly missing knocking it off the balcony. I probably shouldn't have put it so close to the edge, but I thought that was a good way to avoid just grabbing it. I’d have to think about it because one wrong move and it would go flying off the edge, onto the stone patio, or maybe, if it went far enough, into the pool. Gone. Dead. Forever.

Probably for the best. Then I couldn’t keep re-reading the message over and over again.

Ivy

I don’t even know why I’m wasting my breath on this, but just so we’re clear—I hate you. Like, truly, you make my skin crawl. Every time I think about what you did with HER under the bleachers, I want to scream. I’m done pretending to be over this. I HATE YOU. Like, I-can’t-stand-to-think-about-you, hate-you. You make me sick. Every time I picture your face, I want to scream. How could you be so low? You’re just… nothing to me now. Less than nothing. I can’t believe I was ever with you. Lose my number jerk.

The number at the top stared at me, unfamiliar yet memorized. I knew it by heart. I'd had to type it in to send him the message since I deleted his contact. Maybe I should have changed it to something like do not text again or the ex that shall not be named , but there was something I liked about it just being the number. Like he was so unimportant to me that I didn’t even bother saving him as anything. It made me feel victorious in a way I hadn’t felt in a while.

Not that he was ever going to see it. He was far off, in another town, living his perfect life with his perfect girlfriend, while I was here with my only company being neighbors who didn’t even know I existed.

I let the phone slip from my fingers as I peered at the boys again. Just like him , they were all perfect too. Perfect hair and perfect smiles and perfect singing voices that were carrying through the night air. Mom always said that celebrity personas were just manufactured, but living next to the band made me question it .

Right now, it seemed like everyone in the world was having a grand old time except me.

Immediately, my sister’s voice nagged in my ear, reminding me how important self-talk was. She was super into affirmations and self-love and yelled at me whenever I called myself pathetic or anything like that (admittedly, it happened more often than it probably should).

“Ivy Wade,” I told myself sternly, because my sister wasn’t here to do it right now. “You will not be that girl who breaks down because you don’t have a boyfriend.”

The words were weaker coming from myself instead of from Poppy, but with her away, I was just going to have to make do. If I had to rank the sad parts of my life right now, the fact that I was having a mild breakdown over my younger sister going to boarding school would be high on the list. That she was the main thing stopping me from going back to my ex who had publicly cheated on and humiliated me would be up there as well. But what had to take the cake was that I’d stooped so low that my main form of entertainment was stalking my neighbors.

Suddenly invigorated, I jumped to my feet. I had a chance to make something of myself here. To be different than the shy girl I’d been at every other school before. Deciding to put any stalking of the boyband behind me—for tonight, anyhow—I ran back into my room and threw open my closet doors. Time to get rid of everything that didn’t scream the new me .

The next hour was spent pulling out every piece of clothing I owned and trying it on. Trying every top with every possible skirt combination and hairstyle and wondering if I would look better if I wore a different shade of lipstick, then thinking that no, I would look stupid if I did.

About forty-five minutes in, I remembered that my new school had uniforms so testing outfits was a pretty much useless activity. But doing this was the perfect distraction from my way-too-silent phone, so I kept going anyway.

And I very impressively did not run to my phone when it dinged with a text notification.

I just walked.

Quickly.

Okay, so I wasn’t totally immune to seeing my ex’s response to my final text to him. Sue me.

I wasn’t sure whether to smile or throw up when I saw his number staring back at me. But both feelings were overwhelmed by total confusion at the response. Well, his many responses—still coming through as I frowned at the screen.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Remind me to never get on your bad side

Seriously, I’m still recovering from that knockout even though it wasn’t for me

Unless it was.

I hope it wasn’t (because I might have to go dig my own grave now)

But side note, if this is your strategy for making friends, it’s bold

Was he seriously pretending he didn’t know what he did to me? That he thought this text wasn’t meant for him, as if he didn’t totally deserve it? I looked at his number, running over them almost subconsciously. Triple seven, nine, four—I froze. Like whole-world-stops-moving, heart-forgets-how-to-beat, eyes-see-nothing-but-this kind of froze.

Because where there was supposed to be a six next, there was a five.

This was not his number.

I had sent that break-up text—that ridiculous message, pretty much just calling him a piece of crap one last time—to the wrong person.

And they responded .

Kill. Me. Now.