An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(7)

It reminds me of her.

My two long braids fall over both shoulders as I tug the skirt of my sundress down, finally securing my Hummingbird guitar into its case. When I skip over to the table for two, where my best friend since freshman year of high school sits, a glass of wine is already waiting for me on a bar napkin with familiar scribbling etched onto it.

Alyssa waggles her eyebrows as I approach. “He’s obviously dedicated, and has great handwriting,” she observes, fingering the stem of her own glass. “All we need to know at this point is his Enneagram, love language, Zodiac sign, and credit score.”

My eyes roll up through a laugh. I’ve never met anyone quite like Alyssa Akins. She was the popular, pom pom-waving homecoming queen, while I was the quiet music enthusiast who spent her spare time volunteering and doing charity work—but despite our difference in high school social status, we clicked. And I think it’s because, deep down, we were the same. Soul sisters. While she was effortlessly outgoing and adored by everyone, she never acted like she was above them.

I discovered that the day I got into a minor car accident near the school one afternoon, and Alyssa happened to be driving by to cheerleading tryouts. She spotted me shivering on the curb, scared out of my mind, and pulled over, staying with me until my parents showed up, missing half of tryouts.

She didn’t care, though. Giving me comfort during a crisis was more important.

We’ve been inseparable ever since.

I spare Nash a quick glance, receiving a wink in reply. Blushing, I return my attention to Alyssa who looks to be frantically punching his name into her Google search bar. “He’s sweet,” I say.

“Ouch. The kiss of death.”

“He’s not really my type.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m beginning to think your type only consists of the four-legged, flea-prone variety.”

As she says this, I peer down at the little note written on my napkin in blue ink that just happens to read: “I have a dog.” It’s accompanied by a questionable drawing of a canine that looks more like a lemur.

Okay, so he knows me pretty well.

I bite down on my bottom lip to prevent the smile from stretching. Every week, Nash leaves me notes on bar napkins, identifying all of his best qualities and character traits, hoping I’ll go out with him. While his dedication is admirable, my reason for rebuffing his advances is nothing personal.

It’s necessary.

“Maybe I just prefer to live vicariously through you, Lys,” I shrug, sipping my wine.

She grimaces. “I don’t know why. The last guy I was serious about ended up being married. To two separate women.” Eyes popping, she reaches for her phone again. “Nash…Meltzer…wives…” she murmurs as she types.

“He’s not married,” I shake my head. “He has honest eyes.”

“Ted Bundy had honest eyes.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Valid point. Keep me posted.”

Leaving Alyssa to play Nancy Drew, I pull my own cell phone out of my satchel and skim through the notifications, intermittently chatting with a handful of show regulars and returning the smiles and waves sent my way.

As I’m saying goodbye to an acquaintance, a text comes through.

Unknown number:



Tomorrow. 9 AM.





I narrow my eyes at the screen, the talk of Ted Bundy still fresh in my mind.

Me:



Who is this?





How did you get my number?





Unknown number:



I got it the same way I know that your address is 919 S. Maple Ave.





My gut twists with dread.

I’m toast.

He’s one-thousand percent a murderer, and my time of death is tomorrow at nine a.m. I mentally prepare for the occasion, wondering if I have time to write up a will. Attorney offices are probably closed by now.

My hand starts to tremble as I type back a response.

Me:



Just don’t hurt my dogs.





A few minutes tick by before he responds.

Unknown number:



What the hell are you talking about?





Puckering my lips, I blink down at the screen, realizing I probably jumped to conclusions. A real killer would never send me a warning text.

I try to backpedal.

Me:



Never mind.





What are YOU talking about?





Unknown number:



An interview, Lucy. Jesus.





The dread morphs into a fluttery tickle. Kind of like a dead butterfly that’s been resuscitated.

Me:



Cal?





I’m inputting his name into my contacts when he sends a reply.

Cal:



Don’t be late.





Alyssa peers over at my furiously typing thumbs, her interest piqued. “Who’s that?” She gasps. “A guy? Is he the reason you’ve been rejecting Nash?”

“I’m not rejecting Nash. There’s nothing to reject,” I tell her, still typing as zombie butterflies zip around my belly. “He hasn’t officially asked me out.”