An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(78)

I text him every morning that week in the wake of his five-day absence.

Good morning!

I hope you’re feeling better.

I miss you.

He never responds to any of them.





It’s the following Monday when Cal finally makes it into work. An entire week dragged by, my heart shrinking more each day, while the bags under my eyes grew twice their original size. I set a fresh vase of green orchids on his desk to symbolize good health. I’m not confident he was ever sick in the physical sense, but I’m beginning to realize that emotional sickness doesn’t feel any better. In fact, I’m willing to bet it’s the very worst kind.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask as Cal storms past me toward his office. It’s already four p.m. and he hasn’t even gifted me a glance. Not a single one. “Are you feeling okay?”

My own neediness grates me. I’m yearning for something from him, anything, even the driest, smallest crumb. I’d prefer he unleash his anger on me than act like I’m not standing right in front of him, my every heartbeat acting as a plea to make this right.

He must see right through me because he continues to avoid me.

No response, no wayward glance in my direction, not even a grumble or a scowl.

He’s blank.

I don’t exist to him.

I told him I’m dying, and he’s acting like I’m already dead.

Cal disappears into his office and slams the door, just as Ike saunters out of the service area, swiping a big bear paw over his bald head.

I wilt like a droopy orchid. “Hey,” I acknowledge bleakly, collapsing forward on my arms.

“You okay, doll? You haven’t been yourself lately,” he notes. A patched denim vest is draped over a familiar yellow t-shirt, both articles straining against his broad shoulders. “Is it the boss? Ya’ll have us walkin’ on eggshells around here.”

“Sorry,” I tell him, and I mean it. The last thing I ever want to do is contribute to a less-than-sunny working environment. “Everything is fine. What can I get for you?”

“Nothin’. Bishop wants to see you in his office,” he shrugs, scratching the blondish stubble along his jaw. “I’ll watch the desk.”

“What?” My spine goes ramrod straight as my eyes flare. I’m instantly sluiced with anxiety. “Cal?”

“That’s the one.”

I swallow, but it’s more of a painful, brittle gulp. “Okay. Sure.” Instinctively, I swipe away the wrinkles from my wrinkleless jeans, tinker with the long sleeves of my blouse, and fix my hair in an invisible mirror before heaving in a breath of courage.

“You’re pretty as a picture, don’t you worry.” Ike gives me an affectionate wink as he shoos me away from the desk. “I got it covered.”

“Thank you.” I move around him, pacing languidly toward Cal’s closed door. I’m not sure what he wants, or what to expect. I’m uncertain if I should have another apology lined up, or if I should pretend like nothing ever soured between us.

I’m the poster girl for good health. My heart is strong and eternal. We never left each other in shambles the prior weekend, and we’ve spoken every day since.

Everything is wonderful.

The fantasy is enough to pick up my pace as I knock softly on his office door.

“Come in,” he clips, his tone brimming with venom.

The fantasy promptly crumbles at my ankle boots. My hand shakes as I lift it to the knob and twist. The creaky door is the only thing louder than my thundering heartbeats—I think. Truthfully, I’m not even sure of that. “Hi,” I choke out, stepping inside.

Cal sits behind his desk in a faded gray sleeveless shirt that’s practically painted onto him and a dark navy beanie. He’s leaning back in his rolling chair, pivoting side to side. The green-petaled orchid has been pushed to the far corner of his work surface, and the plate of banana bread I brought him is still wrapped in plastic, untouched. “Shut the door and have a seat.”

I feel like I’m in trouble.

At the very least, my heart is in trouble, on the verge of fracturing irreparably.

I shut the door behind me. “Everything okay?”

“Sit.” He points to the seat across from him, his eyes fixed straight ahead, away from me.

“Cal.”

“Lucy, sit.”

Even though he’s giving me orders like an ill-trained puppy, I still obey, gliding quickly over to the unoccupied chair. I swallow a few times to moisten the desert in my throat, then sit down. My eyes lock on his face, while his eyes pan downward, fixating on the desk. On nothingness. Nothingness is preferable to the sight of me. “Hey. Are you feeling better?”

He sighs, and it’s a long, drawn-out sigh. “I wasn’t sick. I was avoiding you.”

I wring my hands together in my lap as my skin flushes at his admission. “At least you’re honest.”

I regret the comment the moment it leaves my mouth.

“That makes one of us,” he replies easily.

Swallowing for the gazillionth time, all I can manage is a nod. I suppose I deserved that.

“We should talk.”

Nodding again, I know I deserve that, too. I deserve a conversation. An explanation as to why he’s shut me out in the wake of my hard truth. “We should.”