When Girlfriends Break Hearts by Savannah Page

tell you, Soph. I know you don’t want to hear it or believe it, but I had to tell you.”
      I held back the tears that were finally on the verge of pouring forth. “I’m glad you told me. And I hate you for this.”  
    “Don’t hate Robin for this,” he said. “It was my fault.”
    “It takes two to tango, Brandon.”
    “Neither one of us wanted to hurt you.”
    “ Doing this is hurtful. Didn’t you think about that?” I was livid. There simply were no excuses. None at all. What Robin and Brandon had done was unforgivable. And Robin had it coming for her now.
    “I’m sorry,” was one of the last things he said to me, but not before he added, “I know what we did was wrong, but maybe it happened for a reason. You and I are not supposed to be together.”
    “That’s rich!” I cried. “Sly way of justifying this crap you pulled on me. Real rich.”
    “I wish it didn’t happen like this, Sophie. I’m really sorry for all the pain I’ve caused.”
    I opened the front door, more than ready to leave this apartment once and for all.  
    “I came for closure and to gain some control over my life again.” I paused. “I have closure now. And I never want you to be a part of my life again. Do you understand?”
    Brandon nodded.
    “And don’t ever think of fucking me or any of my friends ever again.”
    I stepped into the brisk morning air and slammed the door, feeling both an onrush of relief and a wave of despair. My boyfriend had cheated on me and I was hurt. Yet a best friend had deceived me and I was devastated.

Chapter Seven
     
    My next move came in the heat of the moment, born of anger, irrationality—despair. I was at my wit’s ends and needed to lash out, seek answers, and somehow pull my life out of its downward spiral.
    Gripping my steering wheel tightly, I did a California roll through the stop sign that separated what used to be my and Brandon’s neighborhood from the main streets of the upscale Queen Anne district. I drove up and down the steep hills that rose above the scenic Elliott Bay to one side and Lake Union to the other, rolling through each and every stop sign.
    I owe all of my poor driving habits to my big brother, John, who relieved my fearful parents of the “teaching to drive” duties. They taught their eldest son to drive and earned a few premature gray hairs doing so. They were more than thrilled when John offered to step up to the big brother plate and teach his little sis how to manage the road.
    Call it a California thing, or maybe just a lackadaisical thing in this world of rush here and run there, but one of the first no-nos that was “okay to do” that John taught me behind the wheel was the California roll. Resident Santa Barbarans, John explained that barely stopping at a stop sign and carefully rolling through it, with the foot just lightly depressing the brake, looking responsibly left, right, and left again before releasing the brake and proceeding through the intersection at increasing speed, was just “what we do at stop signs in Cali.” Unfortunately, that no-no has remained a habit, leaving me with two warnings and a ticket.  
    Rolling through stop sign after stop sign, each one distancing me from Brandon’s apartment, was not the product of an age-old habit that morning, but rather distraction and anger. Now I wanted someone else’s answers. And apologies. Although I wasn’t sure if any amount of apologies or begs of forgiveness would be sufficient to overcome these hurdles.
    The moment I fled Brandon’s apartment, leaving him to wallow in his self-pity or misery or whatever he was feeling (I hoped it was extremely painful), I knew precisely where my little Prius and I were headed. My new destination was a short fifteen minutes or so across town, just over the I-5 and into the U District—the home of Robin, my so-called BFF , whatever the hell that even meant anymore.
    I can’t believe this is happening, I thought to myself over and over as I