An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(50)

I’m not sure if that makes me feel entirely better, but the fact that he noticed the dark cloud fog my eyes and tried to temper the storm, does trigger the smallest of smiles. “Of course. Have fun.”

“Yeah…you, too.”

Cal gives me a nod, dragging his eyes over me, up and down, before turning away again.

I stop him.

I stop him because I didn’t say everything I wanted to say.

“I guess I just…” Emotion sticks in the back of my throat, and I feel silly for it. But it sticks there anyway, and I worry my lip between my teeth, averting my eyes as Cal comes to a stop one more time with his back to me. Then I breathe in deep and say on the exhale, “I just miss you.”

I watch him stiffen to stone. The planks of his back ripple as he flexes a hand at his side, splaying his fingers before making a fist.

He doesn’t look at me. Just stares at the floor and says, “I’m starting to realize…you can’t miss something you never had.”

And with that, he stalks away, disappearing into his office with the folder.

I feel even sillier when hot tears blur my vision, but all I can think, all I want to say is…

I did have you, Cal. I had you for eight beautiful years.





I’m sitting on the couch picking at a salad that evening, my stomach too knotted to enjoy much of it. As I flip through channels in an off-the-shoulder, ultra-fuzzy sweater—because fuzzy sweaters are the fashion choice for pain—my phone pings with a text message. Lemon’s nose pops up from my lap as I wedge my hand between the cushions to locate it after purposely stuffing it there.

Blowing a piece of hair out of my face, I swipe at the screen.

Cal:



I’m outside.





It takes a moment for me to process his message.

My thumbs hover over the keypad as my eyes ping-pong back and forth between the two words. Then I jump to my feet, smooth down my uncombed hair, and race to the front window to peek through the blinds. Sure enough, Cal is standing outside my house, leaning against his motorcycle in a nutbrown leather bomber jacket and dark blue jeans, his arms crossed. Sans a hat, his hair is all windblown waves and disheveled sex appeal as he sweeps his fingers through it, occasionally glancing at the phone in his opposite hand. Sundown paints him in a muted gold and peach hue, softening his crags and chipped edges.

I gulp.

Fluffing my hair, I swerve to the front door and crack it open, catching his gaze across the lawn. “Cal.”

His name vanishes within the draft that blows through, but he hears my question anyway.

“We’re going to that harvest thing,” he says, straightening from the bike and tucking his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Grab your stuff. I’ll wait.”

“But, I thought—”

“Grab your stuff, Lucy.”

I’d say he doesn’t need to tell me twice, but he clearly did, so I sprint into action, double checking water bowls, frantically fixing my mascara smudges, dancing through a cloud of pear and sugarcane mist, and swapping my dog-hair leggings out for whitewashed skinny jeans. Slipping into a pair of suede lace-up boots, I snag my purse off the wall hook and race out of the house, curving toward my Volkswagen.

“I’ll drive,” Cal says, taking one stride toward me and holding out the helmet. “It’s not far.”

I’m surprised when hesitation doesn’t grip me like it did that first time, voided by the tingle of anticipation. I nod through a smile and join him at the bike as he gears up for the ride. Popping the helmet over my head, Cal turns to help me with the chin strap again.

I shiver when a calloused thumb grazes the line of my jaw. “So, um…what happened to your plans with Jolene?”

“Something better came up.”

His tone is easygoing, like there was no other answer, but the way my heart picks up speed is anything but. “Was she disappointed?” I wonder.

I would be. I’d be dreadfully disappointed in a lonely, Cal-less evening—proven by my night of old sitcoms and fuzzy-sweater wallowing.

All he says is, “Nope.”

Then I straddle the seat and scoot forward, twining both arms around him and clasping my palms at his abdomen. Similar to last time, he reaches behind him one-handed to tug me closer, only he grabs more ass than thigh.

And similar to last time, I lose a breath and try not to tremble.

“You good?”

“I’m good,” I say, reiterating it with a squeeze.

We take off, and I’m lost to the engine purr, the autumn breeze filled with bonfire smoke and remnants of the afternoon rainfall, and the oaky notes of his cologne. His hair flies everywhere as if to mimic my heart, and I have to press my hands together even harder to avoid doing something stupid like letting go and dragging my fingers through it.

There’s no taming it right now.

It’s a ten-minute ride to the festival, and we park at the far end of the muddy lot as the scent of deep-fried everything tries to overpower the scent of him. Cal hops off the bike and takes the helmet from me to secure it.

We both hesitate, our eyes tangling, and I feel unprepared for the moment. Memories come careening back like a waterfall of lost time. I have to remind myself that I’m not that thirteen-year-old little girl whimsically in love with the boy next door, and that Emma isn’t lacing her arm through mine to haul me toward the ticket booth with laughter in her eyes.