An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(22)

“Definitely not,” he parrots flatly.

“Not that you’re not…you know, interesting. You are. You’re sort of dark and mysterious, and you have the tattoos, the motorcycle, the muscles…”

“The personality,” he provides.

It takes a minute to register the fact that he’s joking, poking fun at himself, because he says it with such breezy nonchalance. I burst out laughing, bowing my head until my hair falls all around me, bouncing atop the table. When I glance back up at him, he’s not smiling, but his head is cocked in a charming sort of way, and his eyes are as close to twinkling as I’ve ever seen them. “And the sense of humor,” I add with a grin, taming my hair.

Cal folds his arms as he leans back. “I’ll relay all these compliments to my hoard of concubines.”

More laughter falls out of me.

The pink in my cheeks is now tinged with mirth when the waitress drops off our food a few moments later.

“I don’t see you laugh much,” Cal notes after taking a bite of his burger and wiping his hands on a napkin. “You usually look like you’re in a permanent state of distress around me.”

I watch as he sifts through the little paper pocket of french fries, collecting all the crispy ones and pushing the smooshy ones—the best ones—to the side.

My expression must shift from joy to distress because he follows up his statement with five words that have my stomach flip-flopping.

“I like watching you laugh.”

He doesn’t elaborate, returning his attention to his lunch.

My brain revs into overdrive in an attempt to pick apart that declaration, my wheels spinning as I nibble my burger and munch on the chunks of honeydew melon.

I think about it as Cal insists on paying the bill, completely ignoring the waitress’ phone number scribbled onto the receipt, crumbling it into a little ball that finds its way to the garbage can.

I think about it when we mount his bike, and his hand reaches behind him to grip my thigh as a means of tugging me closer, so I’m safely secured.

I think about it when a colony of butterflies flit around inside my belly at the gesture.

I think about it when my arms clasp around his waist and hold him tight, while wishing I could remove the helmet and press my cheek to the warmth of his back.

Ultimately, I’m still thinking about it when night falls and a dream pulls me into a make-believe world where we are young again; free and burdenless.

Emma is still with us.

And we never stop laughing.





Chapter 8





8/21/2012

“Brotherly Love”



Today, Lucy and I went to the park to watch Cal play basketball. One of his friends, Alex, was being a creep and started whistling at us while we ate roast beef sandwiches on the sidelines. He waggled his tongue and said, “If you run out of meat, I have some of my own you can put in your mouth.” Then he grabbed his junk.

High school boys shouldn’t be saying that stuff to junior high girls—yuck!

But that’s not all.

Cal lost his mind over it! He shoved Alex down and said he’d kill him if he ever talked to us that way again. Alex didn’t like that, so he got up and tackled Cal. My brother went down hard and hit his head on the cement…then he just laid there, not moving.

Lucy screamed. She threw her sandwich and ran faster than I’ve ever seen her run, dropping to her knees beside Cal and leaning over him. I followed behind her, yelling his name and telling Alex to race home and get our parents. When Cal finally opened his eyes, he looked right at Lucy with the funniest look on his face. He kept blinking and staring at her, like she wasn’t even real. Like he was in a weird trance or something.

I didn’t hear what he said after that because Alex started hollering behind me.

But when we all walked home together, they both had that same funny look on their faces…



Toodles,

Emma





My eyes have to be playing tricks on me.

Blinking through the diffused lighting of the wine bar, I try not to let my voice waver as I sing through the lyrics of Edge of Seventeen by Stevie Nicks with my acoustic guitar. Nerves rattle my chest for the first time since I started doing live performances, causing my knees to knock together as I bob my feet along the rung of the stool.

He’s here.

Cal is here, watching me play from the edge of the bar.

Candlelight steeps him in flickering shadow, while the under bar lighting casts an amethyst glow across the stoic expression he’s wearing.

He’s staring right at me, sipping on a glass of dark liquid. Probably whisky or bourbon. His big build and muscular thighs practically take up two stools, and there’s an ardent look in his eyes that sends a shot of firewater to my veins, almost as if I guzzled down my own glass of one hundred-proof liquor.

Focus, Lucy!

I close my eyes and duck my head in an attempt to center myself, but the lyrics jumble in my brain, and I repeat a verse.

Focus, focus, focus.

Hoping nobody noticed, I allow the slip-up to give me fuel as I zone out, straighten my spine, and belt out the rest of the song with my whole soul. When the reverb of the guitar strings fade into applause, I fill my lungs with a plentiful breath and pop my eyes back open.

A smile lifts.