An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(86)

“A perfect doof.”

A smile lingers as she sets the orchid on my dresser. “I really do appreciate the flowers. Orchids are my favorite,” she says softly.

“I know.” I do know—if it wasn’t totally dweeby for a teenage boy to like flowers, I’d say they were my favorite, too. They remind me of my sister…and of the girl next door. “Do you need a ride to Marjorie’s?”

“You only have your learner’s permit, Cal. I’d rather not die tonight when you inevitably crash into an unsuspecting lamppost.”

“I resent that,” I frown. “I’m a great driver. Ask Dad.”

“Dad said you ran over a squirrel last week.”

I thin my lips. “It bolted right out in front of me. It had a death wish.”

“Well, I don’t. I’ll walk,” she breezes, turning to leave the room.

I’m on my feet in an instant, searching for my shoes. “I’ll walk you there. It’s already dark outside. Better to be safe.”

Emma spins back around, shaking her head. “I’ll be fine. She only lives one street over, and I’ve walked there a million times.” When her eyes pan over to my sheet of half-written music, she adds, “Besides, you were excited to work on that song you were writing. I don’t want to interrupt.”

“What about Mom or Dad? You shouldn’t go alone.”

“Dad’s working in his office, and Mom passed out with a migraine. I promise I’ll be fine.”

I do want to work on my song. I’m writing it for Lucy as a birthday present. I realize I’m jumping the gun a bit since her birthday isn’t until Christmas, but it’s my very first song, and I want it to be right. I want it to be perfect. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. I’ll go change and pack, then head out,” she smiles. “Maybe tomorrow we can practice what you’ve written on the piano together.”

I chew on my fingernail, debating the offer. I’m pretty bad at the piano, but Emma has been a good teacher, and I could use the added lessons before I play for Lucy. “Sounds good. Text me when you get there so I know you made it okay.”

“I will.” She holds up her phone and gives it a shake as confirmation.

“I’m serious, Emma. Don’t forget.”

“Cal, I’ll be fine. I promise I’ll text you.”

I know she will. She’s good about it. “All right, have fun. See you tomorrow.”

Emma leans over to give the purple flowers a final whiff before spinning on her heels. “Toodles!” she chirps, skipping out of my bedroom.

It’s the last thing she says before I hear the front door click shut twenty minutes later.

Twenty more minutes tick by as I lose myself to chords and notes, unworthy and imperfect melodies, tapping the pencil to my chin as I attempt to piece together the greatest piano song ever written for the greatest girl I’ve ever met.

Then another twenty minutes pass.

And another.

A whole hour rolls by when I realize her text never came.





Present Day





I stomp through the bays while Alice in Chains blares from the overhead speaker, telling me I made a big mistake.

“I knew I’d find you here on Christmas day, you lonely bastard.”

A cigarette is pressed between my fingers as I glance across the garage at Dante hunched over an engine. His smirk is obscured by the cloud of smoke I blow out through my nose. “Yeah, so? I’ve got work to do. What are you doing here?”

“Same as you. Takes one lonely bastard to know one.”

“I’m not lonely. I like being alone.”

“The difference?” he quips, turning his back to me.

“Choice.”

An unconvinced grumble is his reply as he reaches for a hex-key wrench. “What’s your woman up to today?” he wonders as an early morning sunbeam peeks through the garage window and lights him up. “Probably hoping Santa gifted you with syphilis.”

“Go fuck yourself.” My words fall flat because his aren’t wrong. “She’s not my woman.”

“Not anymore,” he says. “You’re an idiot.”

Also not wrong, but I’ll never admit it to him. “We’ve already had this discussion. Wasn’t your business then, and it’s not now.”

Dante swings around on his stool to shoot me well-earned glare, his tan coveralls stained with a smudge of black grease to match his hair. “She was part of the crew, man. We all liked her, and you sent that poor girl away crying her heart out. I’m not even sure how you sleep at night.”

“I don’t.”

Folding my arms across my chest, a muscle in my cheek twitches. Guilt stabs at places long since sealed as I force my eyes away from the forthright look on his face.

He’s right.

He’s absolutely fucking right, and I can’t muster the lie to deny it. I was an asshole, one hundred percent. While I don’t regret firing her because it was the only scenario that made sense for us, and I sure as hell don’t regret a single second of making her come apart on my desk with my fingers inside of her, watching her head fall back in ecstasy, reveling in the flush of desire stained on her cheeks—I do regret doing those things at the same time.