An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(2)

But, I’m also a tad neurotic.

Quirky, a little strange, and, as some might say, too bubbly.

I’m a good person, yes; kind and giving—but men don’t necessarily want to jump into bed with blundering women who never stop rambling. It’s not sexy.

I’m aware enough to admit that, too.

I live vicariously through Alyssa, and that’s enough for me.

After giving my friend the grand tour, we settle down to share a bottle of wine on my scattered furniture with dogs in our laps and laughter on our tongues. It’s a nice first night that will only be made better when I can whisk myself away to a familiar bedroom and uncover the sacred memories I know are waiting for me.

I see Alyssa off a few hours later, then race down the narrow hallway to a room that used to be draped in lavender and lace. It’s gray now—gray and drab—and I can’t wait to transform it into something sweeter, with love and a paintbrush.

Heart skipping, I seat myself cross-legged on the bedroom floor beside the bed.

Her bedroom floor.

Before I can get too comfortable, my phone pings from my back pocket like a little warning bell telling me to keep the past in the past.

It’s too late for that, though.

It was far too late the moment I picked up the phone and dialed my agent, telling her I’d found the house of my dreams. Nightmares, some nights, but mostly, a new dream in the making.

She was surprised, yes, but she didn’t know just how outlandish my decision really was. I didn’t tell her that I grew up right next door in the cornflower blue raised ranch. I failed to mention that this fifteen-hundred square foot property was practically my second home for eight incredible years.

And I never did admit how eager I was to see if Emma’s secret hiding place still held a trove of long lost treasures.

Pivoting my attention from the floorboards, I pull out my phone and glance down at the screen.

It’s my mother. Shocking.

Mom:



Lucille Anne Hope.





Me:



The full name is less effective in text form, Mom.





Mom:



Just pretend you can hear the ominous inflection in my tone.





Me:



Okay. I’m thoroughly threatened. What’s up?





Mom:



I miss you.





I smile, sending her a flurry of hearts and teary-eyed emojis before tossing my phone onto the top of an adjacent box.

At twenty-two years old, I moved out of my parents’ house.

After a health scare dashed my dreams of leaving the quiet suburbs of Milwaukee and going off to Berklee to pursue a songwriting major, and my father’s subsequent passing kept me from seeking a full-time job due to Mom’s crippling grief and loneliness, I finally decided to chase a taste of independence. It was hard leaving my mother behind, but I think it was even harder for her. We’ve always been close, even more so after Dad died. But we both knew it was time for me to spread my wings and fly the nest.

I just never imagined that my nest would be here.

Right back at the beginning.

A sigh leaves me as I lean back on my palms and stare up at the ceiling that used to be home to dozens of glow-in-the-dark stickers and a giant poster of One Direction. It’s the same ceiling I’d fall asleep staring at over the course of our eight years of sleepover adventures. We’d stuff ourselves with Sour Patch Kids—me hoarding all of the green ones, Emma stealing the reds—and write songs that never had the chance to turn into more than hopeful notes on paper.

I drink in a deep breath, the wine only heightening the buzz filtering through my bloodstream, and straighten back into a sitting position. Then I pull apart the shoddy floorboards, nails popping, splinters scattering along with the rest of my reservations.

My whole body trembling, I peer inside.

And one by one, I pluck the items out.

Emma’s diary, the face of it doodled with multicolored sharpies and peeling stickers.

Loose sheets of music.

Cal’s old clarinet.

Cal, Cal, my Cal.

My eyes mist at the sight of the well-loved instrument, and I graze my fingertips over it, pondering how it became lost in the floorboards, wondering if it still plays. There’s a crack through the center of the wood, the fracture patched with a dab of glue, telling me that Emma was in the process of bringing it back to life.

She was always the glue.

She was always our glue.

I reach for the diary, letting it shake inside my hands, unable to help the prickle of tears from blurring my vision. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard Emma’s voice, but I know it’ll speak to me, loud and clear, as I read over these entries. I think I even heard it when the little red real estate icon popped up on my phone, spinning my life in a totally new direction.

Setting the diary aside for the moment, I keep rummaging, landing on a small photograph buried amid the precious relics.

My breath all but stops.

It’s a picture of us, of my adventure people, and it’s a picture I’ve never seen before.

Me, Emma, and Cal, our arms tangled around each other, our smiles woven with untouchable joy. The night is dark, the fireflies as bright as the light radiating from our faces. I’m tucked tightly inside of Cal’s arm as it wraps around my neck, pulling me right to him, like I was never meant to leave. Emma is on my opposite side, doubled over with laughter.