An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(13)

“What’s that?”

“One,” he quips, holding up an index finger. “Don’t try to talk to him before his coffee. Two, don’t try to talk to him about his family or personal life before or after his coffee. And three…” He flicks three fingers at me, then pauses. “Actually, just keep referring to one and two.”

I purse my lips to the side, debating if I should reach for the notepad and jot these things down. Ultimately, though, all of his points seem to boil down to one point: Avoid Cal.

“Oh, another thing,” he says, tapping four fingers on the desk and waggling his eyebrows. “Don’t take anything personally.”

With a tight smile, I gulp.

Dante sends me off with a wink, whistling as he disappears behind me. “You got this. Welcome to the team, sweetheart.”

His final words race through my mind as I jump into action and try to get organized.

Don’t take anything personally.

It’s only day one, and I’m already faced with the impossible.





The day flies by in a blur of customers, card reader errors, new faces, and crippling anxiety. Thankfully, the mechanics have all been welcoming toward me, which has been a bright spot in an otherwise stressful introduction to the life of an auto shop receptionist.

Ike is in his early thirties, donning a shaved head, troves of leather, and a collection of tattoos that make Cal look like an ink amateur. He’s not as tall as Cal, but he’s just as built, his harsh exterior only softened by the fact that he always has a lollipop dangling from his mouth.

Kenny is the oldest, in his late forties. His face is dappled in freckles and sunspots, his hair and goatee a striking shade of amber; almost red in direct sunlight. The giant bear hug he gave me when we met, combined with a distinctive laugh, has me feeling like I’ve known him for years.

And then there’s Dante, who is closer to Cal’s age—mid-twenties. He’s been friendly and accommodating, quick to help when Cal is preoccupied. I’m pretty sure he’s the flirt of the bunch, judging by the mischievous gleam in his eyes and crooked grin he wears whenever he’s talking to me.

As for the clients, they’ve been patient with me, overall, as I work my way through the unfamiliar program prompts, computer glitches, and general lack of knowledge in the field I’m working in, but my luck runs out around four p.m. when the crotchety Roy Allanson strolls in.

He lifts his cane, pointing it at me like I personally tampered with his vehicle. “You,” he barks, squinting his beady eyes in my direction.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Get the owner.”

I stand there like a deer in headlights, even though the request was crystal clear. My body often locks up when I’m being yelled at or chastised.

“Are ya deaf, girl?” he continues, hobbling closer. “You don’t even look old enough to be working here. Get the owner before I go back there myself.”

My cheeks blaze beet red as I nod my head and rush over to the door that separates the lobby from the service area. “Of course. One moment, please.” The greasy garage fumes act as a welcome reprieve from the shame that’s suffocating me. I look around one of the bays for Cal, who I find half-hidden beneath a red sedan. “Hey, Cal?”

He doesn’t hear me over AC/DC.

Clearing my throat, my voice cracks as I repeat, “Cal.”

Finally, he rolls out from underneath the vehicle, tools in hand. “What’s up?”

“There’s a man here. He’s really mean, and he wants to speak with you.”

He blinks. “Allanson? Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.”

The order is simple, yet it sounds equivalent to how a doctor might feel having to tell a family that their loved one didn’t make it. Masking the uneasiness trickling through me, I pull my lips between my teeth with a head bob and swivel back around to deliver the news.

The man is bent forward over the reception desk when I return, still grumbling profanities under his breath. I lead in with a weird chuckle-sigh noise, clapping my hands together. “He’ll be out in a minute!” I announce cheerfully.

Mr. Allanson slants his eyes at me, roving his gaze up and down my figure with disapproval. He’s wearing a Regal Beagle t-shirt tucked into a pair of khakis that are drooping off his hips. “They’ll hire anyone these days, eh?” he snips, still giving me a onceover.

I swallow, not letting his words get to me.

This guy is just angry and transferring his aggression onto the only person he can right now.

It’s fine.

Cheeks still hot, I shift my attention to the desk and make my way behind it, forcing an amiable smile. I fiddle with a stack of paperwork, pretending to be busy as I feel the man boring holes into my proclaimed inadequacy. “Cal should be right out,” I squeak.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Fortunately, Cal materializes from the service area a moment later, ruffling his hair with a big hand that’s stained with some sort of engine residue. When he sees me smiling maniacally, he shifts his sights to the irate customer and takes over. “Good to see you, Roy.”

“I’m sure you are,” he gripes back. “Tryin’ to bleed me dry with that last bill, and the damn thing still doesn’t work.”

“You tried to replace the air filter yourself and left the plastic on. That’s problematic.”