An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(35)

Breathe, Lucy.

Cal returns to my side, unraveling the t-shirt and examining the wound. He’s talking to me, calming me down as he tends to my hand, but I’m already thrown back in time, stolen away by a memory…



“Breathe, Lucy.”

Cal pulled me from the swimming pool.

I’m staring up at him, shivering, my lungs tight, chest achy.

I can’t catch my breath.

He says it again, his handsome face shadowing the midday sun. “Breathe, Lucy.”

Commotion races around me, but all I see is him. All I hear is him. All I feel is his hand pressed to the middle of my chest, fingers splayed, centering me.

“Is she okay? Cal! Is she okay?”

Emma.

Emma and Cal, my rescuers.

Sirens blare in the distance. Someone called an ambulance.

But I already feel safe.

Cal is telling me to breathe, and Emma is holding my hand.

I’m okay.

I’m okay.

As long as they’re here, I’ll be okay.

I can breathe.





Chapter 11





The weeks fly by, and my hand is healing nicely. My stitches were removed on Friday, and I haven’t had any numbness or other concerning symptoms, so after two weeks off work for medical leave, I’m finally heading back to the shop tomorrow.

To celebrate the fact that I didn’t need an amputation—which I’d convinced myself was somehow fine because technology is so advanced now, I’d probably have received a super cool bionic hand that could double as a flamethrower like Tony Stark—Alyssa came by with a thin crust pizza from my favorite pizza parlor a few towns over.

And wine. Always wine.

“Nobody puts green olives on pizza,” she says through a mouthful as we binge-watch true crime documentaries. “It’s truly heinous.”

“It’s an option, so clearly, people do put green olives on pizza.”

She huffs.

I used to like pepperoni before I became a vegetarian, so the salty olives—or even dill pickles if I’m feeling daring—serve as a tasty alternative, along with extra onions.

Alyssa doesn’t agree, so she ordered a meat lovers calzone, but only took one bite before going straight to the wine.

Kiki is lying at our feet with her eyes bugged out, waiting for a scrap to fall, while Lemon snoozes in her dog bed across the living room, uninterested. Alyssa sneaks Kiki a piece of sausage, and I swat her hand away. “No feeding sausage to the sausage. She’s already ten pounds overweight.”

“Her face, though.”

“I know. That’s why she’s overweight.”

Puckering her lips, Alyssa shifts on the couch and draws her feet up onto the cushion. She reaches for her wine, chugging back a few swallows, leaving a cranberry kiss behind. “Speaking of sausage, your house is looking great.”

I snort.

She always does that—starts a sentence with “speaking of” and then says something completely unrelated. Glancing around the cozy living area, I bob my head with agreement. It is looking homier lately. I made good use of my time off work, inviting my mother over to help me decorate. Embarrassingly, I’d been too busy to fully commit to interior design, so the walls were still sterile and empty. Snubbed for graver tasks, such as losing myself in pages made of ink and ashes.

A three-hour shopping extravaganza at Home Goods changed that, and now I’m sitting amid overpriced coral-hued pillows on an ivory sofa while my slipper-covered feet tap along the new sage and white area rug.

The walls still need fresh paint—maybe a sea-breeze blue—but they’ll do for now. Mom hung an assortment of art prints and family photos since my hand was out of commission, while I broke out a box of hand-me-down trinkets to sprinkle throughout the space.

It’s finally feeling like home.

Their home, my home.

They are interchangeable.

As Alyssa and I dive deep into the pros and cons of Benjamin Moore versus Behr paints, my cell phone pings from the side table beside me. I reach for it, my heart skipping when I see his name.

Cal:



How you holding up?





An organic smile lifts. Cal has been checking in on me every now and then over the past fourteen days, sending me texts like: How’s the hand?

Healing up okay?

Doing any better?

Which, in my mind, all sounded like: I’m worried about you.

Of course, I could be reading into that—after all, Cal doesn’t strike me as the sensitive type.

I’ve caught glimpses of vulnerability and empathy; empathy for me. He’s still closed-off, his disposition more prickly than plush, but nothing will ever erase the memories of that afternoon when he carried me in his arms and told me to breathe in that same, troubled voice from years ago. I’ll never forget the worry lines etched into his face, bending his brows and crinkling his forehead. His eyes were glazed over, the darker brown rims charged with tension, the golden flecks twinkling with tenderness.

He drove me to the hospital in my car, then waited there until I was released, dropping me off at home and walking back to the shop for his bike.

Cal never once complained, and my heart soared.

It’s still soaring.

And that’s what will forever stand out about that day. Not the blood, or the fear, or the pain—just Cal and his soft edges.