An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(66)

He helps crank the dough through a second time, sparing me a quick glance. “I’m too busy. Thanks, though.”

I nod, solemnly. I know Cal is busy, but no busier than me; no busier than a lot of people. Part of me wonders if he’s too busy being in a permanent state of just existing to put any effort into the little things that would help him come alive again.

Once the pasta is thin enough, we stamp it into ravioli shapes. We work together, side by side, mostly in silence as our inner thoughts take over the conversation. Laughter sneaks in once or twice, lightening the mood, and we fall into an easy routine of shaping, filling, pressing, boiling. His squares are uneven, his technique unrefined, but I take note of his misshapen raviolis and secretly plan to steal them for my own plate. To me, they are perfect.

When the pasta is cooked through and simmering in the saucepan, Cal looks over at me, his expression spotlighted by the muted window light. He looks proud, fulfilled.

Unweighted and content.

And it makes me want to wrap my arms around him and claim him as my own, just like I’m going to claim his perfectly imperfect raviolis.

Instead, I dig up his prior declaration and let it echo through me, over and over, until I’m forced to believe it.

I won’t love you, I won’t love you, I won’t love you.

And I refuse to call it fate; I refuse to call it luck—but I suppose it’s for the best that I can’t love him either.

The difference is…I say can’t.

He says won’t.





Dinner wraps up by six p.m., everyone full on food and wine. A gentle flurry of snowflakes falls from a newly darkened sky, sheathing the ground in pure white. Aunt Millie shuffles around the dining room, cleaning the table and popping dishes into the sink while Mom and I unwrap the ungodly amount of dessert selections. Cal and Uncle Dan are absorbed in a sports-related conversation, and I’m grateful the subjects of discussion were by all means light. The only time that lightness was compromised was when my uncle started talking about moving me into Cal’s old house, reminiscing the last time he’d seen it, when it was thriving with fertile rose bushes and children dancing through sprinklers in the front lawn. I was quick to divert, pivoting back to politics.

I’m confident we were the only dinner table tonight in which the topic of politics was less destructive than memories.

“Are you going to play some songs for us, sweetheart?” Mom touches my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “It’s one of my favorite things about holiday gatherings.”

Instinct has me looking over my shoulder at Cal, who seems to have checked out of Uncle Dan’s conversation, and has his gaze pinned on me from across the room. I clear my throat, pulling plastic wrap off the loaf of banana bread. “I didn’t bring my guitar.”

“Use your father’s. It’s in my closet.”

I suppose I could. It’s not that I don’t want to—I love playing for my family—but knowing Cal will be watching the intimate performance has my nerves winding into a queasy knot. I’m afraid emotion will get the better of me. “Okay, sure. I can play a song or two.”

“Wonderful. Go tune up while I get the dessert ready.” She swipes her palm up and down my back affectionately.

When I return from the upstairs bedroom with a guitar tucked in my trembling hands and an anxious flutter in my chest, I spot Cal digging into the banana bread I made especially for him. I glance at the dining table, noting he’s the only one who took a slice, leaving the abhorrent end piece for someone else. A smile pulls.

“So, we’re going to get a private Imogen performance, huh?” he asks through a bite, watching as I float down the staircase and move toward him. He’s seated on the loveseat with Cricket pressed against his thigh, while the rest of the family fills their plates with pie in the adjacent room.

“Just Lucy tonight,” I tell him, smile widening. “I’ll admit, I’m a little nervous.”

“Yeah? How come?”

I fold my lips together. “You know why.”

“Ah.” He nods, swallowing down a forkful. “I’ve seen you play before.”

“I know, but this feels more…intimate.” The word thickens between us as his eyes slide over me, glinting with gold against the dim lighting and flickering candle flames. “It’s different at the wine bar. The atmosphere isn’t the same, and I can zone out easier.”

“You think I’m going to judge you?”

“No, I think you’re going to see me. All of me.”

I’m not sure where the declaration comes from, but my cheeks burn when the words slice through the buoyant mood that had been simmering between us all day. Just like that, I sink. The waters turn dark and turbulent with an unexpected storm, yanking me under.

Dangling the guitar at my side, I use my unoccupied hand to sweep my hair back. “I just mean—”

“I know what you mean,” he says, tone grave, fork poking at the lump of half-eaten bread. “You say it like it’s a negative thing.”

“It’s a vulnerable thing. I don’t want you to see me as anything but that girl in the picture. Happy, burdenless, alive,” I confess, taking tentative steps toward him. “I’m afraid I’ll sing, and you’ll uncover all my buried pieces. The things I don’t want you to see.”