Page 6 of Come Break My Heart Again

I should be nostalgic or excited or nervous. Not … numb. The day hasn’t even started, and I already know how it’ll go. How it’ll end.

Reassuring, I guess. Also boring.

Twenty-nine turns to thirty. I hit the off button before the alarm can begin blaring—a stupid game I play every morning.

“Elodie?” There’s a rapid, efficient knocking on my bedroom door. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” I respond, injecting plenty of false enthusiasm into my tone.

We’re both happier when my mom isn’t worrying about me.

“I didn’t hear your alarm. Is it broken?”

“It went off,” I lie.

Explaining I try to beat my alarm each morning isn’t a concept my mother would understand. She’d probe and analyze and look at me like I was crazy until the silly ritual was ruined.

“Good. Breakfast is ready.”

“I’ll be right down!”

Retreating footsteps are the only response.

I hold one more breath before tossing the sheets away and climbing out of bed. I can hold it for a lot longer than I used to be able to. Maybe I should quit cheerleading and try out for the swim team instead. Dosomethingdifferent so that senior year doesn’t look just like junior year did. To escape the endless déjà vu.

My bedroom has its own connected bathroom, so it’s a short trip to start getting ready. I make my morning routine last as long as I can, wanting to shorten breakfast with my parents as much as possible before my boyfriend, Archer, picks me up.

I would prefer to drive myself to school, but people rarely take what I want into consideration. And fighting the tide gets more exhausting the longer you do it. Pathetic as it sounds, I’ve mostly given up on challenging any currents.

A yogurt parfait and hard-boiled egg are waiting when I enter the formal dining room—same as most mornings. I wonder if my mom remembers this was Rose’s favorite breakfast, not mine.

“Good morning, Dad,” I tell today’s edition of theBoston Globeas I take a seat at the table.

The newsprint lowers to reveal my father. Combed hair. Trimmed beard. Shrewd eyes.

“Good morning, Elodie.” He takes a bite of oatmeal, then a sip of coffee, careful not to let either spill on the navy suit he’s wearing. He wears some variation of this outfit every weekday and most weekends, down to the pressed pocket square and monogrammed cuff links. “Ready for your first day?”

“Yes,” I respond, knowing that’s the only acceptable answer.

Clarkes are always ready.

“This is an important year,” my father tells me.

“I know.”

He nods. “Good.”

I can tell his attention is already drifting back toward his paper. My father limits his paternal responsibilities to pleasantries, monitoring my report cards, and paying for a credit card with an unknown limit I’ve never managed to hit.

“I’m taking an Architecture class this semester,” I tell him.

“Architecture?”

Twin lines appear between my father’s eyes. Brown, like Rose’s were. I inherited my mom’s blue ones.

“For my elective. It’s a new offering this year.”

“What about Mock Trial?”

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