The Broken Hearts Club

by Susan Bishop Crispell

Genres: YA Romance; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When the perpetually single daughter of a magical matchmaker reconnects with the boy she's pretended to be in a relationship with for over a year, she may finally have met her match.

Imogen Finch has never been in love... despite being the daughter of a matchmaker. Her only relationship to date was a fake one with a near stranger named August Tate that she made up to stop people from asking about her love life. To fill the void, she's channeled her obsession with love into her passion for photography, using her ability to literally see the rose-gold glow of a person in love to capture stunning portraits.

But when her adviser says her photography portfolio is "one note", she's desperate to diversify. After hearing her forever crush, Ren, was recently dumped, she decides to photograph the broken-hearted, starting with him. Imogen is hopeful she'll finally find love and get the right photos. So, the last thing she expects is for the real-life version of her fake boyfriend to show up in town asking why they "broke up". Before she knows it she's juggling August and Ren and falling in love for the first time in her life.

 

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Release date: June 6, 2023

Publisher: Recorded Books

Print pages: 363

Sample

CHAPTER 1

 

Love Rule #21: You must be willing to give a part of your heart to gain a piece of someone’s in return.

Love makes people do ridiculous things. Take me for example: today I’m celebrating my one-year anniversary with my very fake boyfriend.

Don’t get me wrong. August is not made up. He’s a real seventeen-year-old I spent an afternoon with almost two summers ago while my mom set up his mom through her matchmaking service. He just doesn’t happen to know I borrowed his name and a few of his most charming personality traits for personal use.

I don’t know if the real August is romantic. But the fake August is off the charts. The surprise anniversary gift on my front doorstep—orchestrated between August and my BFF, Gemma, if anyone asks—is going to light up my Insta all day long. The gift is a bouquet of ranunculus flowers, with their fat delicate balls of layered petals that you can’t help but smile at, and a black velvet box open to display a rose-gold disc necklace engraved with a camera icon on one side and #mostloved, our relationship hashtag, on the other. It’s sweet enough to make a cynic believe in love. At least for a moment.

No one will ever know it’s not real.

Gemma’s the only one in on my lie. It was her idea, actually, after she saw the photo I snapped of him on the day we met. August’s cute in an emo sort of way. In the picture, he’s on the dock behind my house, his dark brown hair long enough to fall into his eyes. He wore a beanie that the nearly eighty-five-degree day was way too hot for but that he refused to take off, and a fitted baseball tee that hinted at muscles on his otherwise skinny frame. And he lives across the state in Winston-Salem, which made him the perfect choice when being the perpetually single daughter of a never-fails matchmaker became too much pressure.

So when Gemma looks at the gifts I’ve staged and says, “Overkill, Mo,” I have to stop and gawk at her.

This was the least over-the-top of my ideas. I considered splurging on this killer rose-gold ring inset with an ombré-teal enamel from a jewelry artist in Scotland (which cost more than I make in a month working at Gemma’s dads’ restaurant) or buying the naming rights to a binary star (until I realized it was a total scam—only the International Astronomical Union can name stars). I also thought about paying a stranger to get a #mostloved tattoo so I could take a photo and pretend it was August, but even I realized that was going too far.

“What are you talking about? This is exactly the right amount of kill,” I say.

“If by kill you mean desperation,” Gemma says. She lifts the necklace from our WELCOME Y’ALL doormat, effectively ruining my ten minutes of tedious setup.

After swatting her hand away, I readjust the box so the early morning light hits it just right. Then I snap a few final shots with my Nikon D500. I’ve got just enough time to transfer it to my phone with my portable SD-card reader and post a story on Insta before first period.

“I’ve spent a year trying to sell this relationship. I can’t blow it now!”

“Then you might want to lose the flowers that look like a wedding bouquet. Otherwise, it looks like you’re trying too hard.”

“Not me, Gemma. August. Plus, they’re my favorite flowers, so it would be weird if he got me something different.”

She makes a production of rolling her eyes. If she weren’t so damn good at building sets for the drama club, I’d say she should be the lead in every play. “Fine. But hurry up. I need coffee before class.”

“You could’ve stopped on your way here. I might’ve even been done by the time you got here if you weren’t distracting me with your overkill talk.”

She huffs out an exasperated sigh, closing her eyes as if looking at me is too much effort. Her blended teal-and-purple mermaid eyeshadow shimmers with the movement.

I laugh.

She laughs.

We fall right back into the conversation as if the interruption never even happened.

“And deprive you of the opportunity to get a surprise anniversary coffee from August? I wouldn’t dare,” she says.

Gemma pretends to hate all this fanfare, but I know she loves it. She’s as single as I am, so this fake relationship is the most action either of us has seen in way too long. But she refuses to use me to boost her love life. Even when I could tell her with one look if the person she likes feels the same way.

Grinning at her, I say, “Not much of a surprise now, is it?”

She shrugs. “Well, nothing with your boyfriend ever is, so at least it tracks.”

“Harsh.”

“But no less true. Now make it snappy.”

Doing as she instructed, I take a few more shots and, with as much drama as I can muster, say, “Snap, snap, snap.” One for each click of the shutter.

“Sip, sip, sip,” she replies.

Not-so-subtle hint taken, I scoop up the anniversary photo shoot accessories and arrange them back into the tote bag where they’ve lived for the past two weeks. My fingers linger on the necklace. It’s been hard not to break it out early. The gifts from August are part lie perpetuation, part sensible planning since I was going to buy them myself anyway. This way I have the added benefit of seeming like I’m one-half of a perfect relationship.

Gemma speeds up my meticulous process by jamming the ranunculus into the vase of water sitting on the porch and shoving it at me so water drenches the front of my dress.

“It’ll air-dry,” she says by way of apology.

“Remind me to keep my surprise anniversary coffee away from you, or I might end up wearing it too.”

Gemma glares at me, one eyebrow raised in warning. “Only if you make me late for first period.”

“We’re going, we’re going.” I set the tote and flowers on the hallway table, yell goodbye to my mom, who’s already in her home office prepping for today’s first match-seeking client, and race to the car before Gemma leaves without me. She’s done it before, and I had to run three blocks before I caught up to her at a stop sign. She laughed so hard, she started wheezing.

Once I’m safely in the front seat, I connect my SD drive to my phone, then transfer the photos, and after selecting the best one, I pull up the photo caption I drafted during a shift at Yeastie Boys last week and add it to my anniversary post. One year of being #mostloved. Gemma thinks the hashtag is obnoxious and that if August ever found out about our fake relationship, he’d use the embarrassment of it as justification for murdering me on the spot. Thankfully, it’s not like he’ll ever find out. I made a fake Instagram account for my August so I can tag him in my stories and

posts without linking back to the real August.

Selling a lie like this is all about the details. And I am the queen of details. It’s what makes me such a good photographer. I see things others don’t notice, and I make them stand out.

Like this picture. Most people would’ve focused on getting every item in frame. Giving each part of the gift equal billing. But not me. I picked an angle that put the necklace slightly off center, with the curvy-stemmed flowers coming in from one corner, and it makes the photo a thousand times more interesting. It tells a story instead of being static, flat. A love story. And maybe one day that story will be real. Not with August but with someone who finally sees me as more than a friend.

---

Gemma’s dads own Yeastie Boys Café. It’s a breakfast-all-day joint with the best biscuits in the state of North Carolina. The award plaque to prove it hangs on the wall by the register. Gemma and I have been working here since we could see over the counter, though it only became official when we turned fourteen and her dads could legally put us on the payroll.

The small diner-style room sizzles with conversation and bacon cooking in the kitchen. A dozen familiar faces turn our way with some form of “morning, Gemma; morning, Mo.” We know all the regulars by name and customary order. Though we’re in here so often for a kick of caffeine on our way to school that they’d recognize us even if we didn’t work here.

I return every greeting personally. Gemma throws a wave to the room at large, only adding a smile when one of her dads, Lee, shoots her a look.

“One shot,” Gemma says to me, dashing behind the counter to collect two to-go mugs from Lee. She pops a kiss onto his cheek as thanks.

I pretend not to get her meaning just to get a rise out of her. “Of espresso? Do you want us to sleep through class?”

“You know full well what I mean. No turning the cup this way and that, trying to find the best light. All the light in here is perfect.” She offers up the cup, a note handwritten in black marker on the side facing me.

I love you most.

For a moment I forget it’s all made up. That August isn’t really my boyfriend and this love note isn’t really from him. And my heart goes all warm and fuzzy.

“Wow, that must be some coffee,” says a voice behind me.

I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Ren. But I do. Because I’m apparently a masochist.

Ren Kano. My forever crush. With his easy surfer smile and wavy dark hair that begs for hands to get tangled in it. He’s the reason I made up a relationship with August in the first place. To force myself to stop pining for him when he and Lana Abrams were actual couple goals. They’ve been together since freshman year and are basically halfway down the aisle already. All I have to do is look at the rose-gold auras swirling around them when they’re together to know it’s true love.

The ability to literally see when people are in love is what makes my mom one of the most sought-after matchmakers in the country. It’s not as idyllic for the daughter of said matchmaker. Having my crushes treat me like a freak—or worse, ask me to tell them if their crushes feel the same—all but put a nail in my dating coffin. Ren has never done either, but thanks to Lana, he’s never going to look at me the way I’m apparently looking at my salted caramel mocha.

A lie is on my tongue before I even think about it. “This is special anniversary coffee. August and I have been together for a year today. Since we don’t get to see each other, Gemma’s helping him carry out surprises for me. Hence me mooning over my coffee.” I turn the cup so he and Lana can see the note that is very much not from my boyfriend.

Lana waits until Ren is distracted with ordering their drinks, then says, “You’re lucky he goes to this much effort to let you know he loves you. Especially a year in. I think Ren stopped doing stuff like that after the first three months.” Her usual love-fueled rose-gold aura is shot through with whirls of teal like patina.

The color of heartbreak.

The shimmer of color against her dark skin is stunning. The watery teal glow is such a stark difference from how I’ve seen her for the past three plus years that I almost don’t recognize her. My fingers itch to snap a picture of her with my phone to make sure I’m not seeing something that’s not actually there. But I don’t because I have manners.

If I did though, I’d be able to capture her heartbreak aura in the picture. No one other than Mom or me would be able to see it, but it would be there as vibrant swirls of color just as I see it in real life.

My eyes drift to Ren, who is currently colorless. No love, no heartbreak. Whatever he’s feeling for Lana in the wake of her comment isn’t something I can see. But the tension building between the three of us threatens to suck all the air out of the room. Though I’m the only one who seems to notice.

It’s not that I want them to break up. I’m not that heartless. But I wouldn’t be disappointed if it happened.

Guilt creeps across my skin like a sunburn, and I rush to try and spackle over the cracks in their relationship before they grow too deep to be fixed. “It’s just a coffee. At least you get to see Ren every day. He doesn’t have to do

extra stuff to remind you he’s thinking about you.”

“Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be nice to be reminded every once in a while.”

Ren waves at Lee to get him to hold on the orders he just placed. Slipping his arm around Lana’s shoulders, Ren pulls her into his side. “Do you want me to have them write something special on your coffee?”

“It’s not special if you have to ask me first.”

“So that’s a no?” There’s a subtle bite to his words, a jagged edge smoothed over by a teasing smile.

My fingers cramp from holding my cup so tightly. “If you give me a heads-up before you come in next time I’m working, I’ve got you covered.” Crap. Did I really just volunteer to write a love note for my crush’s girlfriend? There’s something seriously wrong with me.

Giving my cup a death glare, Lana shakes out of his hold. “Don’t bother, Mo. If he doesn’t want to do it on his own, I’m not going to force him. I have to do that enough already.” The teal in her aura grows darker until it’s a storm cloud raging around her chest, blocking all the brightness and warmth of the love she feels for Ren beneath the hurt.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“Exactly what it sounds like. If I didn’t make plans for us to do things together or come find you when I know you’ll be someplace like here getting coffee before school, our relationship would be nonexistent.”

Lee slides their drinks across the counter—sans note—and Ren takes his as if it’s a sword he can defend himself with. Brandishing it toward Lana, he says, “If that’s how you feel, maybe you should see if Mo’s perfect boyfriend has a friend you can date instead.”

They both look at me like this is an actual request. Like my response will dictate the future of their relationship. I don’t need that kind of pressure. That’s why I have a strict no-matchmaking policy in place. The only relationship I want to be in the middle of is my own. “I—”

“You know what? It’d be better than sitting here waiting for you to remember I exist. So, if you want me to find someone else, fine. I’m sure Mo will be more than happy to help me. Don’t come crawling back to me when you finally realize what you gave away.”

Gemma swoops in to save me before I make things worse. “Her mom’s the matchmaker. And we should get to school before we’re late. One more time and it’s detention for me.” Hooking her arm through mine, she steers me away from them before I’ve gotten a picture of my coffee. The melting whipped cream and chocolaty drink slosh up through the hole in the lid I slapped on it and dribble over the side, leaving a trail of stickiness right through my message.

Happy fake anniversary  to me.

CHAPTER 2

Love Rule #10: If you’re looking for perfect, you’ll miss out on what’s right.

With all my fake anniversary planning and the surprise of Ren and Lana possibly breaking up, I completely forget about my meeting with my adviser during the lunch break. My application for the Kinsey School of Art and Design’s summer art intensive is due in thirty-seven days. I have a countdown on my phone. Mrs. Clemente is helping me pick my best shots. The ones that say as much about me as a photographer as about the subject.

When I get to the photography lab on the other side of campus, she’s not there. I’m only a couple of minutes late, so I doubt she’s already bailed. Though it is lasagna day, and the cafeteria makes better Italian food than Flour + Salt, the fanciest restaurant in town. Nice to know our tuition money goes toward something everyone can benefit from.

I lay my leather portfolio case on the table and unpack the portraits Gemma and I deemed the best. Twelve in all. The application requires eight, so I have some decisions to make. By the time I’ve arranged them—and rearranged them—on the desk, Mrs. Clemente dashes into the room, a plate of lasagna sliding across the plastic tray she carries one-handed. “Look at you, all ready to go.” She stuffs a forkful of cheesy, saucy noodles in her mouth. “Let me just set this down.”

“You can keep eating. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, no. For the next ten, maybe twelve minutes, you get my full attention. Show me what you got.”

My palms go all clammy, like they do whenever Ren comes into the café. I wipe them dry on my thighs and hope Mrs. Clemente doesn’t notice. Turns out, she’s not even watching me. She’s already studying my photos, her eyes squinted slightly in concentration.

Objectively, I know my pictures are good. With a pale gray backdrop and natural light flooding in through floor-to-ceiling windows in the studio, each subject’s love glow shines. I shoot them all from the torso up, where their glow is on full display. Mrs. Clemente can’t see the swirling cloud of rose gold in each portrait the way I do, but each one is unmistakably a person in love.

My pants are no match for my overactive nervous sweat, and I give up, curling my hands into balls behind my back.

“These are good, Imogen.” Her tone is cautious, like she’s scared to say more. Like she knows what comes out next is going to destroy me. She doesn’t disappoint. “But do they really showcase your talent? Do they show the range and artistic depth you and I both know you’re capable of?”

I’ve wanted to be a photographer since I was little and would fill my mom’s phone with picture after picture of every person we met. I didn’t care about capturing things or places. Always people. I loved the way most people would stop everything when they saw a camera aimed their way and put on their brightest smile. I used to delete all the pictures where the person wasn’t smiling, thinking it was a bad shot. But now I see the beauty in different expressions. The story being told through their eyes, the set of their jaw, the tilt of their head. And it’s my job to make sure that story gets heard.

“But I do portrait photography. These are my best ones,” I say.

“And they are beautiful. As a portfolio though, it’s a little one-note. They’re too similar. You want to wow the summer program’s admission panel, and I’m afraid this won’t stand out. I think you keep this one,” she points to a portrait of Delaney Richards, one of my mom’s frequent clients. As much as Delaney wants to find true love, the closest she’s come to it is falling for the idea of her perfect man. So far, Mom hasn’t found him. “And this one.” Mrs. Clemente taps the portrait of Gabe, Gemma’s other dad. He agreed to be part of my portfolio in exchange for me working extra shifts when one of the other servers called in sick for a week. “Maybe one other. For the rest of the submission, let’s try something new. Something that really sets you apart and allows your talent to shine. Think you

can do that?”

No. The word screams in my head. But I refuse to give voice to it. I just have to show Mrs. Clemente she’s wrong about my work.

“I have other pictures, from class projects and just random shots I’ve taken of nature and places around town.”

“That’s a good start. I’m going to push you to think outside your comfort zone though. The goal is to make sure each piece makes a statement. That it says something to the viewer. You take stunning photographs of people because that’s what you love. Now we just need to find something other than people that you’re just as passionate about. It could be landscapes or pets or a different format like underwater photography. Whatever gets you excited. I know you can do this, Imogen.”

The thing is, I love love. That’s why my portraits are so good. I can see the moment love takes hold and sets someone’s heart on fire. Ask the right questions, get them to tell a story, and they literally glow. The photographs practically take themselves.

But I can’t magic an inanimate object into the perfect shot. And I can’t make her see what I see. The swirling mist of rose gold that ripples around the images. The thickness and brightness and movement that is unique to each person. When I look at my photos, I see the love pouring off them. Mom does too. To everyone else though, they’re just portraits of happy people grinning for the camera.

But if I can’t make anyone else see what I see, then I’ll never be anything more than good.

---

Mom’s office doors are closed when I get home, meaning she’s with a client. The glass French doors give the illusion of privacy. She’ll give me the complete rundown on this client the second they leave so that when it comes time for me to shoot their love-match photos for their matching session, I’ll know everything I need to get the best shots. Knowing what they love—those things that make them light up on the inside—makes all the difference.

That’s something Mrs. Clemente doesn’t understand about my photos. I’m not just taking portraits. I’m capturing the true essence of my subject’s heart and putting it out there for all the world to see. The swirls of rose gold emanating from them might not be visible to anyone but me and Mom, but the love causing it is.

I just have to find a way to make her see it.

Mom’s laugh cuts through my thoughts. It’s her snuggled-into-the-couch-for-a-mother-daughter-The-Good-Place-marathon laugh. Not the polite, reserved version of it she uses with clients. Whoever she’s with today is sure to find love if they can make Mom drop her professional defenses and bust a gut. ...