An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(62)

The realization sends a wave of anxiety sweeping through me. I’ve been so caught up in work, music, the sanctuary, and Cal, that I lost track of time. Mom usually starts sending me turkey memes right about now, which is my reminder to start prepping the menu.

We’ve kept it simple since Dad died a few years back. My Aunt Millie and Uncle Dan usually join us with my cousins and their twin girls, but last year, the extended family came down with the flu, so it was just Mom and me. I can’t help but wonder what Cal does for the holidays. He mentioned he didn’t have a big family, and I don’t recall too many relatives coming over when we were growing up. Holidays were often spent together—the Hopes and the Bishops.

That tradition died years ago, so what does he do now?

Does he spend it with his mother?

Does he spend it…alone?

My heart withers at the thought of Cal eating Thanksgiving dinner all by himself in his empty house, just him and a squirrely kitten.

I squeeze my wine glass. “What are your plans?” I ask him when the other three start discussing the pros and cons of doing a wedding “first look” as they scroll Pinterest for photography ideas.

“Plans?” he murmurs, lips folded around the rim of his glass.

“For Thanksgiving.”

Bleakness claims his eyes as he swallows. “I don’t really celebrate.”

“You don’t? How come?”

“Do I look like a guy who’s bursting with holiday spirit?”

I decide not to mention the Halloween ghost decoration I saw poking out from his wood chips last month. “I mean, not exactly, but everyone does something. What about your mom?”

“I order takeout and watch football. My mother heads up to Green Bay most years to visit her parents.”

“That sounds…lonely.” Peering down into my wine glass, I swipe at the lip gloss smudge with my thumb. My fears were dead-on—Cal spends Thanksgiving alone. Probably Christmas, too. As embarrassing as it is to get choked up over something like this, I can’t help the prickle of tears. “It makes me sad.”

“I like being alone,” he reasons. “I told you that.”

When I glance up at him, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, his brows crease, like he can’t believe I’m getting emotional. “Spend Thanksgiving with us this year. Mom and I cook everything from scratch. There will be plenty of food.”

There’s a wavering softness in his expression that he tries to wash away by scrubbing a hand over his face. He scratches at his jaw, looking off to the side. “That’s not necessary. I’m good.”

“Please.”

Our eyes meet again. Hesitation lingers, hovering between us, but it’s fleeting. He shakes his head. “I appreciate the invitation, but no. I said I’m fine.”

I’m about to insist, tell him about the turkey Mom cooks on the little charcoal grill in the garage, just like Dad used to, and fill him in on my favorite fixings like sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, and my too-easy green bean casserole that basically consists of processed cheese and creamed soup—but I’m stopped short when a familiar face catches my eye, strolling by our table, hand-in-hand with someone who isn’t Jessica.

He spots me immediately, doing a double-take. “Lucy?”

My chair teeters on its rear legs when I pull to a stand, almost tipping. “Greg. Hi.”

Memories flood me, adding to the tears I’d hardly begun to blink away. Alyssa swivels around, her eyes popping with recognition.

“It’s been a long time,” Greg says, clearing his throat as his eyes flicker with shadows of the past. The woman on his arm smiles, a little warily, likely wondering why the tension in the room thickens into black tar. “How are you?”

“I’m good. I’m really good,” I breathe out, glancing down at Cal, who is still seated but shifting in his chair with apprehension. “Do you come here a lot?”

“No, actually, first time. Angie recommended it…” He trails off when the brunette tightens her grip on his upper arm, her knuckles going white. Greg clears his throat. “Sorry, this is my girlfriend, Angie. Ang, this is Lucy—she used to be friends with…” He trails off again, and this time, the trail feels endless. Destination-less. Sun-stripped, full of dust and tumbleweeds. “Us,” he finally opts for.

I’m latching onto something for balance, and I think it’s the chairback, but I soon realize it’s Cal’s shoulder when his hand lifts to graze along the back of my knuckles like a calming tether. The weight on my chest loosens. I’m reeled back to sunlit skies and fresh air that doesn’t make me choke. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say to the woman with violet-rimmed glasses and big brown eyes. She looks nothing like Jessica, who had white-blond hair, even lighter than Alyssa’s, and irises painted with the jewel-blue hues of the sea. Angie nods tightly, uncomfortable. “Sorry, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Greg. A few years.”

“No worries.” She nods at my guitar case propped beside my chair. “Are you playing tonight? We were hoping to catch some live music.”

“Oh, I did,” I bob my head. “Unfortunately, I just wrapped up. I’ll be here next week at seven.”

Greg’s eyes round. “You play? I mean…you play live? Like a paid gig?”