An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(37)

And we don’t notice.

Those leaves have always just looked dead.

I felt this way for years, so I understand it. It still lives in me as this little black hole I’m constantly filling with laughter and good people and daydreams.

But I get it, I do, and I refuse to be responsible for it.

“Thanks, Lys,” I finally reply, adding her flurry of compliments to that black hole until it has no choice but to close up and put its teeth away.

I have a charmed life. A blessed life.

And the tangled, ugly roots of loss have no business leaching.

Alyssa falls asleep on my couch a while later, slipping into a wine coma and snoring into the palm of her hand. I smile at the image, considering snapping a photo of her dribble of drool, but choosing to give her grace. Instead, I drag myself from the sofa and put myself to bed, snatching my phone off the floor in the process.

Part of me wants to ignore that little notification bubble I know is waiting for me.

But the bigger part opens his message before my dreams whisk me away to endless summers in which the leaves never die.

Cal:



:)





There is bad luck, and then there is worse luck.

And then there is the kind of luck that can’t even be cataloged.

Like a category six hurricane.

One would think that a severe hand laceration and two weeks out of work would be an adequate amount of suffering for one person, but the universe did not agree.

My house flooded.

My perfect new house flooded after the water heater burst sometime in the night after Alyssa slept off her Merlot and headed home. I made the discovery shortly before five a.m. when I woke up to let the dogs out and traipsed through inches of standing water in my fuzzy socks. Since the water heater is located in the small laundry room off the kitchen, which borders the living area, my entire main living space has been compromised.

Ruined, really.

I tried not to have a breakdown as I fed the dogs outside, forcing the sobs strangling my chest to morph into delirious laughter. My neighbor was sitting on his deck with a mug of coffee, sending peculiar glances in my direction, so I waved madly through the cry-laughter and stretched a smile so wide, I’m sure I looked maniacal.

He hasn’t formally met me yet.

And now, he never will.

I decide to drag the dogs with me to work that morning because I can’t leave them alone in this mess, and Mom hasn’t answered my calls because her definition of retirement is sleeping in.

I’m in such a rush, and unwilling to trek through the flooded carpet to my bedroom that morning, that I pull a box marked “Goodwill” out of my coat closet and throw on what I feel like qualifies as a presentable outfit. It’s a white t-shirt with a sunshine design that says, “What sunshine is to flowers, smiles are to humanity.” I pair it with stretchy leggings, knowing everything is a few years old, but they still seem to fit okay despite the shirt being a little on the snug side.

Combing my hair into a high ponytail with my fingers and smearing on lip balm, I head out the door.

Luckily, my mother calls me as I’m pulling into the parking lot. I breathe a sigh of relief and connect her through the Bluetooth.

“Lucy? Sweetheart? Are you at the hospital? I’m never sleeping in again,” she rambles. “I’ve been reminding you to stop putting off your doctor appointment. Where are yo—”

“Mom, please, calm yourself. You’re spiking my anxiety.” This is why I shouldn’t leave her voicemails consisting solely of, “Call me as soon as you get this.” Mom is going on the fritz. “My house flooded. Can you call Uncle Dan and see if he can come by today?”

“The gutters were clogged, weren’t they? I knew it.”

“No, it hasn’t rained in weeks. The water heater burst.”

“Are you okay? And my furry grandbabies?”

“We’re fine, but I might need a place to crash for a few days until Uncle Dan can get this taken care of. Do you mind?”

It’s a silly question. She minds as much as she minds deep-tissue massages followed by mimosas on the beach while waiters that look like a young Pierce Brosnan bring her never-ending bowls of ceviche.

“I’ll get the guest room ready. We can make those vegetarian porcupines you love for dinner. I’ll see if I have the ingredients on hand.”

“Thanks, Mom. Let me know what Uncle Dan says.”

“I’ll call him right now.”

We say our goodbyes and disconnect, then I take a quick moment to convince myself that this is not the end of the world. This is fine. This is okay.

I wanted to replace the floors anyway.

This is a good thing.

New floors are good.

Skimming my fingers through my ponytail, I repeat this over and over until it sticks.

Yay! My house flooded! Best day ever!

The peptalk seems to lift my spirits, so I shuffle inside the shop with Kiki and Lemon, one-handed, and secure my smile into place, even though my dogs are already barking their heads off and pulling on the leashes so hard I almost face-plant.

“What the hell?” Cal is standing behind the desk when he spots me lumbering through the main door trying not to trip over two corgis that have no business being in an auto shop.

I was also so frazzled that I put my shoes on the wrong feet.