An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(85)

I hang up and shut off my phone, swiping away the tears with the sleeve of my pajama shirt. Swatting my hair out of my face, I drink in another breath and climb off the bed, falling to my knees beside the loose floorboard.

It’s partially open, Emma’s long lost treasures staring up at me. I move the plank aside and stare into the dark cubby, savoring the memories.

Cal’s old clarinet, patched up and glued back together with love.

Emma’s diary filled with all of her precious pieces.

Notes, stickers, wishes that never came true.

I smile down at everything she was, at everything she was meant to become, and I add a final trinket to the pile.

Pinky the panda bear.

I stuff the toy inside the hole and cover it back up, securing the floorboard into place, hiding it all away where it belongs.

Then I climb into the guest bed and fall asleep, dreaming of Emma, dreaming of Cal, dreaming of my adventure people.

But, there’s a fine line between adventure and disaster.

And little did I know, as I chased fireflies and wishes, lost in a beautiful dream, that disaster would strike in the worst possible way on the day I turned twenty-three.





Chapter 22





Cal





Age 15





The Night She Left





She’s still in her recital dress when I hand her the orchid. I swiped it from Lucy’s mom’s living room, which doubles as a greenhouse, because it was more convenient than riding my bike to the local Woodman’s.

They say it’s the thought that counts, so I’m going to go with that.

Emma’s eyes light up like pennies under the sun. “You got me flowers?”

My sister gives her dress a twirl before she grabs the pot of violet petals from my hands, popping her eyebrows up and down. I quirk a grin, pleased with my pilfering. “Of course. It was your first piano recital. Isn’t that customary or something?”

“Not from stinky big brothers.”

“I don’t stink,” I say, sparing my sweat-stained jersey a glance. After being cooped up in that auditorium for three mindless hours, I had to let off some steam when I got home and shoot hoops in the driveway. Not that I regret going to the recital—Emma was flawless in her performance. A natural-born. And the smile she wore the whole time, braided with joy and confidence?

The absolute best.

It was the remaining two hours and fifty minutes that had me bored numb.

In true stinky big brother fashion, I pull Emma into a hug, infecting her with the stench of my one-man game. She squeals and squirms, pushing against me with one hand, the other holding the orchid high above her head. “Gross, Cal! Let me go.”

“Say I don’t stink.”

“Fine, you reek.”

I shove her head in the direction of my armpit, pulling a diabolical shriek out of her. Laughing until my stomach hurts, I finally release her, relishing in the murderous glare in her eyes. “You totally deserved that,” I wheeze through my laughter.

“You’re the worst.” Her words are eclipsed by the upturn of her lips and the way her freckles scatter when her cheeks stretch. “But you got me flowers, so bonus points for that.”

“Points, huh? Are you keeping score of my awesomeness?”

“Yes. Lucy’s winning by a thousand points.”

“Not possible. I did the dishes for you last night so you two could write songs in your room, pretending you were the future Spice Girls.”

Her nose scrunches up. “Which Spice Girl would I be?”

I don’t miss a beat. “Scary Spice.”

“Ugh.” She swats at my shoulder. “You lost fifty points. Go back to your corner.”

Shrugging, I saunter backward until I collapse into the giant bean bag chair in my designated “corner.” Emma surprised me last Christmas after I fell asleep on the couch by sneaking into my bedroom with Mom and decorating the far corner of my room with basketball posters, a navy beanbag chair, stacks of sports magazines, and a homemade clarinet she made with Dad. She cut out letters from newspapers and magazines, taping them to my wall, spelling “Cal’s Corner.”

It’s my safe haven, a little sanctuary, where I write music, play the clarinet, listen to my headphones, and do homework. I’m still trying to think of a gift worthy of topping it, but everything comes up short. She’s pretty much the best sibling ever.

She has all the points.

“Are you and Lucy having a sleepover tonight?” I wonder, clasping my hands behind my head.

Say yes, my mind adds.

A pout steals her expression. “No, I’m having a sleepover with Marjorie. Her mom is having all the recital girls over to celebrate.”

“No fair. I was hoping to torment you both until sunrise.”

“Of course you were. I have no idea what Lucy sees in you.”

Her red dress tickles her ankles as she bobs her hips back and forth. Emma told me that red makes girls look older—according to Lucy, anyway—but I disagree. Her bony frame, gummy smile, and crooked ponytail tell me she’s all innocent kid. When her words register, I narrow my eyes with mock disdain. “She sees utter perfection, clearly.”

“You’re such a doof.”