An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(48)

“I think I got it,” Nash cuts in with a chuckle, fishing out his wallet. “What’s the damage?”

The emotional damage I cause myself by being myself?

Infinite.

The oil change?

“It’ll be one-hundred-and-twenty dollars and fifty-five cents.”

“Great.”

As Nash sifts through the wallet for cash, the service door plows open, and Cal appears, wiping his grease-stained hands along his faded blue jeans. He comes up beside me and glances at the computer screen, not saying a word. All he does is hover, standing over me like a menacing shadow.

Then he swivels toward Nash with a glare and presses forward on the desk, palms down.

Clearing his throat, Nash hands me a wad of bills as he flicks his eyes between us. “So, uh, Lucy,” he begins.

“Yeah?” I plaster a smile onto my face as I count the money, but I can’t seem to count with Cal so close and so terrifyingly silent, so I end up recounting it five times before popping it in the drawer, still unsure if I did the math right.

Nash coughs into his fist, and then, “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to—”

“She doesn’t want to,” Cal interrupts.

Oh my God.

Cheeks heating, I immediately elbow Cal in the ribs, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s a brick wall. “What? Cal, go away.”

Nash frowns. “She doesn’t? And why is that?”

“Because I’m sleeping with her, that’s why.”

I go pallid.

My neck does a one-eighty Exorcist twist toward Cal as my already pink cheeks morph into fuchsia.

“Um.” Nash scratches the back of his head, shifting between feet. “Beg your pardon?”

Cal crosses two big arms over his oil-stained t-shirt, his expression blasé. “I’m fucking her,” he repeats. “Regularly. Aggressively.”

“Cal!”

I’m mortified.

I’m leagues beyond mortified.

I’m not sure if there’s a word for leagues beyond mortified, but it’s probably dead.

I’m dead.

“I see,” Nash says as his eyes flit back and forth between me and Cal. “My mistake.”

“No, no…” I try, still futilely jabbing my elbow into Cal. “Nash, we’re not—”

“All good. I’ll take the receipt and head out. See you Friday.” He smiles, but it’s strained.

I’m so frazzled, I accidentally hand him a bake sale flyer decorated in smiley-faced scones that I grabbed on my lunch break, instead of his receipt. And because the moment couldn’t possibly get any more awkward, he glances at it, happily accepts it, and turns around slowly to leave.

When the door shuts with a cheery farewell, I tent my hands and press them to my chin. I think I might hyperventilate.

“Breathe, Lucy. You look pale.”

This—this—has my eyes pinging back open as I fling myself around in a circle to gape at Cal. “What was that?”

“What?”

I blink at him like I’m about to have a stroke. “Cal. You just humiliated me in front of—”

“A guy you said you weren’t interested in. I did you a favor.”

“You told him we were having aggressive sex.”

“So?” He leans on the desk with one hand, shrugging, completely cool and collected. Acting like nothing even happened. “I gave you an out. You’re welcome.”

“An out?”

“Yeah, an out with him,” he says. “Or an in with me. Whichever.”

That smirk reappears, the one I’ve grown to crave, the one that makes me question my eternal vow of celibacy. And I can’t help the rush of tingles to my nether regions, or the heart palpitations, or the belly flutters that feel like buzzing hummingbird wings as my mind instinctively races with images of taking Cal up on his…in.

Stop it, Lucy. He’s being a brute.

But Cal notices the way my eyes flare, paired with my brief moment of hesitation, and his smirk broadens. Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he saunters backward, away from the desk. “Your floors done yet?”

Tucking my lips between my teeth, I shake my head.

My uncle texted me saying he needed one more day.

Cal gives me a nod and turns around to head back toward the garage. “Good. See you for dinner.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me shaken and conflicted, but ultimately fumbling for my cell phone inside my purse and making a split-second decision to call my mother.

“Lucy? Everything okay?” Mom wonders on the other end of the line.

I swallow and drink in a deep breath. “Yep, everything’s great. How about those porcupines tonight?”





Chapter 14





The little Instagram icon that pops up on my notification bar has me doing a double-take. I hardly use the app, as I hardly use much of social media at all. It’s too isolating, which is interesting, given its purpose is to connect and unite. My personal feed is limited to about a dozen posts over the past few years, consisting mostly of animals and nature.

There’s a singular photo of me that Alyssa took one rainy, wine-inspired evening last spring when inhibitions were low, and spirits were high. It’s a darker photo—more laughter lit than moonlit—and it’s not exactly flattering with my wet hair plastered to both sides of my face as I close my eyes and scrunch up my nose through a slap-happy grin. Raindrops float along my lashes, a result of the downpour we were dancing in on Alyssa’s condominium terrace.