An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(81)

And then it’s over.

I tip my head backward, half of it hanging over the edge of the desk as I drape the back of my arm over my eyes. Mixed emotions spiral through me, rendering me immobile. I don’t know what to say, think, do.

What happens next, what happens next…

His weight pulls off of me, and the evidence of his orgasm turns cold against my skin. I lift up slightly, noting the way his release glistens underneath the tungsten light above us. I need him to talk to me, to tell me what to do, how to react to what just happened.

Cal breathes out deeply, tucking himself back into his jeans and yanking up the zipper. He adjusts his belt and plucks a few tissues from the box of Kleenex beside me on the desk. My eyes squeeze shut, my chest heaving, as I feel the tissue flutter and swipe across my belly and chest, absorbing the aftermath of our encounter.

I can’t absorb it, though. I can’t process it.

What happens next, what happens next…

“Cal.” His name is a plea, a pardon. I’ve never felt more inexperienced than I feel in this moment, sprawled half naked on his desk as he wipes his cum off my body.

Finally, he pulls me to a sitting position. Our foreheads knock together when he leans over, and I just sit there, mutely, as my shirt falls back down. Cal tucks my hair behind my ear, then presses a light kiss to my hairline. “Lucy…” he murmurs gently.

I wait for his next words.

I need them.

I need them more than I need air.

But I nearly trip over my own heart as it bottoms out of me when he says the absolute last thing I expect him to say…

“You’re fired.”





Chapter 21





12.25.12

“Last Christmas”



You want to know the worst song ever made?

Last Christmas by Wham!

It’s a song about heartbreak, betrayal, and loss, and I can’t think of a worse thing to sing about during such a magical time of year. I think I’m going to write my own Christmas song, and I’ll call it Every Christmas. It’ll be about eternal love and hearts that don’t know how to break. They can only celebrate, only love, only sing with joy and wonder.



Every Christmas, I give you my heart

And every night, you hold it so tight

Each year, I have no more tears

Because our love is something special



There, I fixed it.

Merry Christmas!



Toodles,

Emma





The Christmas tree twinkles beneath the skylight, glittering with silvery tinsel and golden garland. Forever Young’s lobby is decked out to the max as potential adopters line up outside the door to snap a picture of their pet with Santa Claus, in exchange for a modest fifteen-dollar donation. We’re hoping to raise funds for the sanctuary going into the new year, while getting traffic and fresh faces in the door to meet our adoptable pets.

I’m dressed like an elf, because of course I am.

Gemma, too.

Vera is adorned head to toe in a Mrs. Claus suit while her husband, Terrance, sits in the big man’s chair. The costume is perfect for her, given her permanent rosy cheeks and nurturing disposition. Moses, an elderly bloodhound, drags her down the hallway on his leather lead, his nose overly curious as his reindeer ears tip charmingly off the top of his head. “Slow down, boy. These knees aren’t what they used to be.”

“I got him,” I jump in, taking the leash from her hand. “Moses smells those holiday dog treats I whipped up, don’t you, old boy?” The platter of mutt-friendly biscuits, shaped into candy canes and jolly snowmen, sit beside an array of human treats I’ve marked accordingly.

“You’re so good to these pets, Lucy,” Vera says kindly, adjusting her Mrs. Claus hat. “I can’t wait until you’re here more often.”

I smile, and it’s partially genuine, somewhat sad. After I told Vera about my recent unemployment status, she immediately offered me a paid position at the sanctuary. Only a small handful of workers are here in more than a volunteering capacity, and I didn’t feel great about the idea of taking money from an establishment that survives off of donations. I never wanted to get paid for something I value doing for free.

But I was in a bind, and I can’t think of a better position than to work for a cause I feel passionate about. To work at a place that appreciates me, and wants me there.

Cal wanted me once. So, he took what he wanted, and then he tossed me aside.

I’m still processing the shock of it all.

While I’m making less per hour, and working fewer hours in general, it’ll do for now. Besides, Nash offered me a bartending gig two nights a week at the wine bar to help supplement the missing income. I’m not certified by any means, so he’s going to pay me under the table until I get an actual license—if that’s, ultimately, what I want to do.

I just don’t know.

I’m in a current state of waffling, which never pairs well with grief.

Gemma sidles up to me in her bright green elf suit, her arms full of our favorite tuxedo cat, Mr. Perkins. “Did you see that anonymous donation that came in yesterday?” she wonders, the red streaks in her hair matching the ornaments sprinkled onto the tree behind her. “Another two thousand dollars. It might be enough to cover Mr. Perkins’ dental surgery.”