An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(87)

The timing was shit.

The timing was a poorly aimed arrow to her heart.

And mine.

On instinct, I sift through my pockets for my cell phone and glance at the screen, itching to see a missed call or text from her.

Nothing.

It’s eight a.m., and I know she’s up by now, but she’s clearly not thinking about me or the tentative plans we’d made for the day consisting of monkey bread, gift opening, and reminiscing by tinsel and tree light.

Dante can see me sweating, so he adds to my self-inflicted torment. “She’s too busy crying to text you, bro.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Like I said, takes one to know one.” A half-smile shines back at me, lightening the tension. “Go comfort her. Stop being a cowardly shit and admit you fucked up.”

I swallow, shoving the phone into the deepest recesses of my pocket so I’m not tempted to keep checking it. “She doesn’t want to see me,” I confess, my voice cracking enough to erase Dante’s grin. I clear my throat. “It’s fine. She’s better off.”

Based on last night’s emotion-charged conversation, I don’t think it’s a lie. The heartbreak in Lucy’s voice haunted me all night. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest. I even kicked my poor kitten out of the bed when she tried to bring me a semblance of solace, purring and nuzzling the crook of my neck, because I didn’t feel like I deserved the relief.

I take an extra long drag on my cigarette until it chokes me.

“That’s exactly what a coward would say,” Dante replies, leaning forward on his elbows. “She’s not better off being sad as shit on Christmas. It’s her birthday, too, right? Goddamn, Bishop, go make it right. And give that girl her job back while you’re at it.”

My muscles tense as I flick some ashes to the garage floor. “She’s already got another job.”

With that bartender—Nash.

What the actual fuck?

It’s obvious he’s trying to get into her pants, and now she’ll probably let him. The thought makes me want to vomit.

And yet, I still can’t bring myself to pretend Dante’s assessment is lacking any truth, so I dig for my cell phone again and type out a quick message, one-handed, hoping Lucy isn’t actively wishing syphilis upon me.

Me:



Merry Christmas. I’m coming over whether you want me to or not. I have something for you.





It’s true, I do.

It’s not much, but I didn’t know what to get her that showcased value in all the right ways. Lucy isn’t the materialistic type, so shoes, or a new purse, or a pretty sweater wouldn’t do. It had to be special, so I had something custom-made for her shortly before her wedding night bombshell detonated, causing a catastrophic eruption we never fully recovered from.

I still can’t process that truth bomb.

Maybe it’s denial, maybe it’s the bone-deep fear of losing Emma all over again, but the thought of Lucy’s heart being anything less than fully intact and unimpaired, isn’t something I can fathom.

And the fact that she kept it from me, all while whittling away my walls and steamrolling my jagged edges, was just another well-hidden landmine I stepped right onto.

I never saw it coming.

I never saw her coming back into my life, and now she’s all I can see through the smoke.

The phone is heavy in my hand as I wait for my text message to show “read,” but it never does. It only shows delivered, acting as a glaring parallel to my own misery.

“I’m dying.”

Delivered, but not read.

Spoken, but not registered.

Given, but not accepted.

Fuck it—I’m just going to show up on her doorstep, and she’ll have no choice but to let me in. With a long sigh, I throw my cigarette butt to the floor, stomp it out, then toss it in a nearby trash can. Before I turn to leave, Dante calls out to me.

“Hey, Bishop,” he hollers, pulling my attention back to him. “Good luck. And Merry Christmas.”

I falter, my throat tight. “Yeah. You, too.” Nodding a curt farewell, I head out of the shop.

It’s an easy ride to Lucy’s house on my bike, but what comes next is anything but easy. I’ve been over here a few times now, but never inside. Never too close. I can’t linger for long, or look too closely at the attached one-car garage, or focus on how nothing about the damn house has changed in almost a decade, the bricks still honey-yellow, the shutters only slightly weathered.

Even the basketball hoop still stands, rusted and unused, the net only slightly more tattered than it used to be. The rose bushes are still lined up, three in a row, and the leafless maple tree towers over the roof from its familiar perch in the backyard.

The only difference is the special touches she’s brought to it.

The string lights strewn around the bushes and porch pillar because she couldn’t reach the roof. A light-up snowman inflatable in the center of the lawn, teetering when a draft rolls through. A gold and green wreath, possibly handmade, hanging from the front door.

Oh, and the color of that front door.

It’s red now.

Like mine, like Emma’s last recital dress, like Lucy’s reception attire with such a steep V-neck, all I wanted to do was dip my tongue between her breasts and make her mine.