An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(49)
It's one of those candid photos; the kind you couldn’t recreate even if you tried. I ended up slapping on a black-and-white filter and uploading it to my feed, less because I wanted to and more because Alyssa begged me to show off her blossoming talent for cell phone photography with a tag and full credit. But…I’m glad I posted it. I pull it up sometimes when I need the reminder that everything is okay, I’m still breathing, and life is good.
And now, the photo has a new “like” from an account that recently followed me.
Curious, I click on the handle named _oilandink, which looks to be a newer account with a picture of a motorcycle as the profile image. One photo is posted to the feed, dated a little over a week ago, and I recognize it instantly.
It’s a slightly blurry shot of two corgis and a sweet kitten all curled up together on a small cat bed. They are a ball of sable and cream, squished and content, and my heart races with pure adoration.
The picture is paired with a simple caption of a smiley-face emoji.
I give the photo a “like” and follow him back from my own account titled everythinglime. Then I investigate further, noting he has fifteen followers, but he only follows two of them back.
There’s one comment under the photo that reads, “Omggg Cal! I didn’t know you had puppers and a kitty!” along with a slew of cat-shaped heart-eyes emojis—to which he responded with, “Dogs aren’t mine.”
I stare at the picture for a long time. Longer than necessary. Longer than I should, considering I’m on the clock and Cal is sauntering up behind me from his office mumbling something under his breath.
“Can’t find that invoice folder,” he says as he approaches.
Robotically, I reach for the folder lying beside me on the desk and hold it up. “You have an Instagram account.”
“Am I viral yet?” he deadpans, snatching the manilla folder from my hand.
A smile pulls. “I didn’t know you took that picture. It’s so sweet.” I brave a glance at him as I close out the app and toss the phone back into my purse.
Cal flips through the loose papers in the folder, brows bent with what could be either deep thought or irritation. The sleeves of his gunmetal-hued shirt are hacked off at the shoulders, highlighting big biceps and a canvas of ink stained with what looks like fuel oil.
He lifts his chin, eyeing me for a beat before sifting through more receipts.
Off his silence, I continue. “I didn’t realize Cricket had warmed up to my dogs. Maybe she’ll warm up to me, too, one day. I guess that would require us spending more time together…”
“Hm,” is all he says.
It’s more of an acknowledgement, really, less actual response.
When he pivots away from me, I blurt, “What are you doing tonight?” I don’t think it through, because if I’d thought it through, I probably would have considered the fact that personal time with Cal outside of work is a dangerous, blurry line that I’ve been trying to avoid ever since our intimate rendezvous on his basement couch that hasn’t been mentioned since the day I ditched his dinner invitation in exchange for visiting my mother.
I was a coward, I know.
I mean…I think I was a coward. Truthfully, I’m not sure if running from something you wholeheartedly believe to be an erroneous choice, while wholeheartedly wanting it anyway, is more cowardice or courage.
Either way, Cal took my running as rejection, which I suppose is understandable—even though I wasn’t rejecting him, per se, but the thought of crossing that dangerous, blurry line with him.
What doesn’t seem fair is the fact that he’s hardly spoken to me all week unless he’s barking orders or scolding me for something I may or may not have done.
And I miss him terribly.
Cal pauses his retreat, releasing a sigh as he scratches at the stubble on his cheek. “Why?”
“Well, there’s this fall carnival going on all weekend—Harvest Fest. I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go,” I swallow. “You know, with me.”
He levels me with a look that says more than words.
The last time we went to a carnival together was with Emma. We’d been so young and carefree, popping tufts of pink and blue cotton candy into our mouths, eating churros until our bellies ached, and laughing atop the Ferris wheel, untouchable and unscathed.
We were high on life.
Buzzing with adventure.
Blissfully in love with everything under the stars. Everything the sun touched, and everything the moon kissed. In love with each other.
It was the weekend before Memorial Day.
The weekend before—
“I’ve got plans,” he finally says.
Oh. I tinker with a loose wave of hair before flipping it over my shoulder. “Oh, sure, no problem. What are you up to? Anything exciting?”
“A date.”
A date.
A date.
Anxiety nibbles at my insides, and then those teeth turn into sharp fangs and take a painful bite. I try to school my expression, keep it from wilting and dying as if the bite were poisonous, but Cal must notice a piece of me goes missing. Gets chewed right off.
Most men would most likely relish in such a reaction and poke further. Another jab.
A “take that.”
But Cal looks down at his dirty boots, then back up, and a softness glitters in his eyes as he shakes his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” he tells me, squaring his jaw. “I’m grabbing a drink with Jolene at Mallory’s. Just catching up.”