An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(27)
I study him for a moment. His eyes soften as they stare across the room, the brewing storm like a silver-fade from dark to light. Something has his muscles unclenching, his tension dissipating.
This isn’t about a flower.
There’s something else going on, but I’m too scared to dig.
Then his declaration registers, and I frown thoughtfully. “You can’t water them every day, Cal. Orchids only need to be watered once a week. I grew up with a houseful because my mom loves collecting them.” I watch Cal glance down at his dirty, scuffed boots, his biceps flexing with wavelets of new tension, before I add gently, “You’ve been killing them.”
His head snaps up.
Gold-spun irises funnel with a new firestorm. My instincts tell me to step back, move away, but I lift a hand, instead, placing my palm against his rigid forearm. I feel the muscles twitch and tense when I trace my thumb along the sleeve of his tattoo.
Skulls and skeletons. Relics and bones.
Death.
All I want to do is breathe new life into him, so I take a small step forward and give his arm a squeeze. For once in my life, I say nothing. I just stand there, holding his arm, and tip my chin up until we’re eye-to-eye. A smile crests on my mouth to match the warmth of my touch.
Electricity kindles.
Heat blooms beneath my fingertips.
I suck in a breath and wait for him to say something—anything—hoping he’ll accept the tiny invitation to unshroud his darkness, to share his demons with me.
Briefly, I think he’s going to. His eyes glaze over with a hint of vulnerability, lips parting with all the things I long to hear.
But then he shakes me off of him, sluicing me with the sting of rejection.
I stumble back.
Ripping his arm away, Cal scratches at the spot where my hand just was, as if he’s trying to carve out my touch. He takes a long stride backward, gaze shimmering with intensity, stance withdrawn. And his next words slither through me like a plume of black smoke.
“Don’t,” he grits out, head swinging back and forth as he continues to retreat. “Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you.”
The implication settles in like a weighty brick, and my vision blurs, a whooshing sound humming in my ears. He’s not talking about the food in the fridge. He’s not talking about the orchid.
He’s talking about himself.
He could have shoved his fist through my chest and yanked out a rib, and I would have felt less sucker-punched.
Ouch.
I catch the flash of guilt that skates across his face before I spin around toward the window, spritzing more cleaner onto the glass.
My rag swishes up and down, side to side.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the boy I adored is long-gone, lost to the fallout of a broken road.
I still hear him standing behind me, sighing his trademark sigh, but I refuse to turn around. I can’t let him see how much that hurt.
Smiling right now would be too hard.
So, I keep wiping the glass, keep distracting myself, keep trying to forget what was, so I can adapt to what is.
I can do this.
I can forget about everything he used to mean to me.
Eventually, Cal’s footsteps stomp away, shuffling in time to the rag gliding across the window.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Stomp, stomp, stomp.
The service door slams shut, and my tears fall.
10/22/2013
“Yellow Orchids”
There’s a million reasons why I love going to Lucy’s house: Stuffing our faces with Sour Patch Kids and watching the old Goosebumps episodes on Netflix. Writing songs in her bedroom while she practices on her guitar. Sneaking her mom’s historical romance novels and giggling until we cry.
And one of them is because her mom collects orchids.
They’re such a pretty flower. Kind of elegant, like how I feel when I’m performing at my piano recitals in a fancy dress and Mom’s bright pink lipstick. I’m not sure why Mrs. Hope chose orchids as her favorite flower out of all the flowers in the world, but I’m glad she did. They’re beautiful.
I decided to look up the meaning of the flower on Dad’s computer, and I think my favorite is the yellow orchid. It represents friendship and new beginnings. Cheer, happiness, and joy.
It reminds me of Lucy.
Mostly, it reminds me of us.
Toodles,
Emma
Cal doesn’t know it yet, but I filled his office with fresh orchids two hours ago. Kenny heard the ricochet of Cal’s volatile mood, likely tipped off by the door-slam and subsequent hostility radiating off of him like the roar of an impending hurricane. Being the nice guy that Kenny is, he sauntered up to the lobby amid my quiet breakdown and told me to take an early lunch and give myself a breather.
Wrought with embarrassment, I offered up my thanks and booked it out of the auto shop, debating if I should head home and have a cryfest with my dogs, or call Alyssa and beg for advice.
It’s never good advice, but it always leaves me with a smile.
Somehow, neither option panned out, and I found myself cruising into the parking lot of the local Woodman’s. I knew it was both foolish and futile, but those things had never stopped me in the past—so, I purchased every single orchid on display in the floral department and filled my car to the brim.