An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(3)

I recall the moment.

Cal and Emma’s father called out, “Ready?”

We weren’t, but he snapped the photo anyway.

Then he asked us again, and again, and again, until we were a mess of undignified giggles and snorts, halfway falling onto each other.

We were never ready.

We were inherently, forever ready.

I press a finger to the photo, tracing the faces that have only lived inside my memories for nearly a decade.

Where are you, Callahan Bishop? Where did you go?

He may be an entirely different person now. Someone new, someone I’d hardly recognize, but I have to cling to hope that the boy I loved is still out there somewhere.

Hope.

Hope is why I’m here—it’s my name, after all; it’s in my blood.

But, I suppose the trouble with hope is that it’s nothing more than a feeling, and feelings are fleeting. Names are eternal, but feelings don’t last forever.

And neither do we.

All I know is that I’m going to use the time I have left to make up for the time lost.

I know, now…I need to find him.

I need to find my old friend.





Chapter 2





3/12/2013

“Deceptive Cadence”



A deceptive cadence happens when a chord progression seems to be coming to an end, but doesn’t. It’s a musical trick. It’s a tool that plays with a listener’s expectations, and I think that’s pretty neat. I’ve been thinking about how a term like that can apply to real life situations. Everyday stuff. You think you know what’s coming, but you never really do. And sometimes, when you think something is coming to an end, it’s actually the beginning of something beautiful.

It's kind of like when the next door neighbors moved when I was five. I really liked their cat, so I cried for a whole week thinking it was the end of the world. But then, a pretty cool thing happened. A new family moved into that house.

They didn’t have a cat, but they had something even better.

They had Lucy.



Toodles,

Emma





I’m not a stalker. Not technically.

Well, maybe technically—I need to look up the exact definition—but my intentions are far from sinister, and that’s what counts.

I hope.

Curiosity swims through me as I pop the car door closed with the heel of my sandal and gaze up at the worn lettering of the auto shop sign.

Cal’s Corner.

It’s a small shop perched, fittingly, on a corner lot. The road that it sits off of isn’t very busy, so the business must rely heavily on word of mouth and a loyal clientele. The prior day, I was on a mission to track down Cal, coming out of the excursion successful. Equipped with nothing but a name and the semi-blurry face of a fifteen-year-old boy, I strolled from house to house like I was a troop leader pandering for Girl Scout cookie orders. Eventually, an older woman recognized him.

“Cal? Cal Bishop?”

I positively beamed through a frantic head nod. “Yes, you know him?”

“Oh, sure,” the woman said. “He owns that auto repair shop in town. Used to live down the road before his mama up and moved him away after…” She lowered her head, tinkering with her eyeglasses. “Well, after they went through some family trouble.”

I swallowed, my stomach souring. “I know. I used to live next door to him. We lost touch over the years, and I’d love to see how he’s been doing.”

“He’s doing fine, dear. They do wonderful work over at the shop—my husband, Roy, is always running into car problems, and Cal is quick and affordable.”

“That’s great,” I smiled with gratitude, eagerness fusing with nerves. “Thank you for the information.”

“Come back over here and let me know how the reunion goes. I’m a lonely old bat in need of some new gossip.”

My laughter saw her off, and I’ve thought of nothing else over the last twenty-four hours.

Only seeing Cal.

Armed with a platter of freshly baked banana bread, my questionable resume, and a nervous smile, I head toward the pewter gray bricks and silvery door that greet me at the front of the building. A little bell chimes when I step inside. I glance up to find a pair of jingle bells tied with red ribbon and plastic holly berries, which is interesting because it’s August, but I’m not one to judge. I love Christmas—which also happens to be my birthday.

My eyes case the lobby as the door closes behind me. Aside from the splash of festive flare, its overall aesthetic is cold and uninviting. Two folding chairs are divided by a wood table snagged out of a 1980s garage sale’s “free to good home” bin. It’s topped with a stack of car magazines that look well-loved. My nose scrunches up because it smells like a marrying of carburetors and sweaty men, but that can be fixed with some air fresheners, or a wax warmer. A reception desk sits abandoned against the far wall, drowning in piles of manilla folders and bookkeeping notes, and I can easily see why this little shop needs help.

Smiling, I set my resume and banana bread platter on one of the chairs, hoping I have the opportunity to breathe new life into my old friend’s business.

“Can I help you?”

A deep, gravelly voice has me swiveling around and coming face-to-face with a man with shaggy dark hair. He wipes his hands on a rag as he studies me with cautious curiosity.