An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(79)

Cal leans back farther, fishing through his blue jeans for something, then pulling out a nearly full pack of cigarettes. He plucks one from the box and searches for a lighter in his drawer.

My chest pangs at the image. I hated that he’d smoked that cigarette outside the wedding venue, but I figured it was a one-time thing. A moment of weakness amid a moment of something far worse. “You’re smoking again?”

“Sometimes,” he mumbles through the rolled paper and nicotine. He lights up, blowing the smoke to his left. “Needed something stronger than the gum.”

Because of me.

I deflate in my seat, trying to keep the tears at bay. Guilt and culpability filter through me. “I hate that,” I whisper. “I really do.”

When I cough on a cloud of smoke that floats over to me, Cal stills for a moment, his attention finally pinning on me. He blinks through the smoke, then waves it away and pulls to a stand. “Sorry,” he murmurs, stalking to the lone window and tugging it open. He stubs out the cigarette and tosses it outside. “Wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay.”

He starts to pace around the room, hands planting on his hips. “I’m just on edge. Pissed off, resentful,” he says, moving toward me, then spinning around to walk the other way. When his back is to me, he finishes, “Wishing I could just hate you.”

I rise from my chair. “I don’t wish that. I don’t wish that at all.”

“It would make this a hell of a lot easier.”

“It would make what easier?” I step over to him, directly behind him, and extend my hand until it’s brushing his shoulder. “Cal…”

He whips around. “I’d seen you play before.”

I stare at him for a moment, slowly processing.

What?

Shaking my head, I wet my lips. “What do you mean?”

“Before you applied for a job here. I found you on Instagram and saw you made a post from the wine bar. It was a blurry picture of your guitar neck, with a crowd of people in focus behind it. The caption said something like, ‘My favorite place to be.’ I watched you play through the window a few times after work, just to hear your voice. See your smile.” He swallows. “Just to know you were doing okay.”

My brows bend with bewilderment, eyes misting. That can’t be right. I was certain Cal had swept our friendship under the rug, and I’d never once considered the notion that he’d been keeping tabs on me; that he’d found me.

His words from that first day at the auto shop echo around me: “I know who you are.”

He recognized me. Of course he did.

“You…you never came inside,” I croak, blindsided. “I never knew.”

“I didn’t want you to know,” he says, glancing away. “I didn’t want to know you, Lucy. I just wanted to make sure you were doing well. That you were happy.”

I’m not understanding. It doesn’t make sense. “But…why? Why wouldn’t you want to reach out? I missed you so much, Cal. I—”

“Because I’ve lost everything I’ve ever loved,” he shouts, temper flaring, voice rising. His arms extend at his sides, gaze aflame. “Everything. So, no, I don’t make a fucking habit out of harnessing relationships or searching out new ones. It’s easier to be alone. I have to be alone.”

A tear escapes. My heart aches for him.

Cal and I are different in so many ways, but nothing compares to this.

My losses have shown me the fragile beauty of life. I appreciate what I have, I treasure everything that’s still here. I view each day as a celebration, as a precious gift, while Cal sees life from an entirely different perspective.

To him, every day is a reminder of what he’s lost.

A warning that he’s still capable of losing.

I reach out my hand, as trembling as it is, wanting to comfort him in some way.

But he snatches me by the wrist before I can make contact. “I don’t need your pity or sympathy. It was a mistake to get close to you.”

“Nothing about us is a mistake.”

“No?”

“No.” I’m firm in my delivery.

Cal hangs onto my wrist, his grip loosening but not letting go. There’s a wavering in his touch. A pause. His eyes hold on mine until they dip to my mouth, holding there instead. And then they track even lower, to the scar between my breasts, to the trace of cleavage peeking out from my blouse. His grasp tightens ever so slightly, his breathing unsteadying. He looks back up, and there’s the smallest shift in his expression.

“What?” I breathe out, suddenly desperate to know what he’s thinking. It’s not the same thing he was thinking just moments ago, that much I know.

His throat bobs, jaw clenching, as he still holds onto my wrist, his thumb grazing my pulse point. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“You don’t want to know what I was thinking about, Lucy.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I promise you don’t.” He drops my arm, then moves around me, heading in the opposite direction.

My pulse revs, heating my blood. “I do.” I boldly reach for his elbow as he stalks away from me, and the gesture does something.

Cal comes to a grinding halt.

Then he spins around, snatching me by the waist with both hands, practically lifting me off the ground. My feet struggle not to trip over themselves as he moves us both backward until I’m being hoisted up and deposited onto his work desk in one fell swoop. Loose papers scatter along with my breath. A stapler topples, the orchid tips.