An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(88)

Like her lips when they parted for me, succumbing to our inevitable kiss.

Like the color in her cheeks when I made her come.

My skin heats at the memory, distracting me just enough so I can pull off my bike and trudge through her frost-tipped front lawn. The grass blades crunch beneath my boots. My heartbeats thunder with a swell of anxiety, uncertain of what the fuck I’m even going to say when I see her.

I’m sorry for avoiding you for a week because I couldn’t process the thought of a life without you.

I’m sorry for firing you.

I’m sorry for finger-fucking you until you chanted my name, and then breaking your perfect heart.

I’m sorry for not being able to love you, because everything I love dies.

And if I lose you, it’ll finally be the goddamn end of me.

I’m not a groveling man, and no speech is prepared, but I hope I’m enough.

Me, and the little gift tucked inside the pocket of my jeans.

I blow out a breath, watching it plume against the chilly air like the cigarette smoke I’m desperate to suck into my lungs. The curtains covering the bay window are cracked, giving me a partial view of her illuminated Christmas tree sitting behind the pane of glass—in the same place we used to put it. I refuse to think about that last Christmas ten years ago, that last worthy, laughter-lit Christmas, and pool all my energy into salvaging all I can of this one.

My knuckles tap against the screen door. I wait, shuffling from foot to foot on her stoop, fidgeting with the box of cigarettes calling to me from my back pocket. I close my eyes and blow out another breath, waiting, still waiting. It takes a solid minute for me to register the fact that her dogs aren’t barking, so I lean over to the window and try to peer inside.

The tree is too big, and I can’t see shit.

I twist around and double-check the driveway, confirming that her black Passat is, indeed, still sitting there dormant. I didn’t imagine it.

A pang of anxiety settles in.

Familiar twinges of worry churn in my gut.

Nausea swirls, my mind reeling with worst case scenarios and memories of my little sister walking out the front door and never coming back.

No, this isn’t like Emma.

She isn’t Emma.

Swallowing back an acrid lump, I turn toward the quiet street, taking in the stillness of the air and noting how it was blowing angrily only moments ago, and now it’s lifeless.

The snow-dusted streets are empty, everyone tucked inside their warm homes, sipping cocoa and opening gifts.

I move off the step, eyes scanning left to right, then I pull out my cell phone.

It’s still blank. My text was never opened, never read.

My heartbeats kick up. My lungs feel tight and smothered.

Inhaling a worried breath, I begin to stalk back toward my bike, deciding on my next move.

That’s when something catches my eye. At first it doesn’t register, doesn’t compute, and even though my eyes are witness to two familiar dogs running straight at me, their leashes dragging behind them, it doesn’t make any sense.

Lucy’s dogs, loose and racing down the sidewalk.

Lucy’s dogs, but no Lucy.

No Lucy.

Where’s Lucy?

I’m frozen to the cement, my blood turning ice cold. The cell phone falls from my hand, cracking when it hits the pavement.

Kiki and Lemon storm at me, Kiki barking her head off, Lemon frantically circling my ankles, both of them pawing at me, stressed and whining.

I start to sweat, start to wither, start to die a little inside.

When the dogs decide they have my full attention, they take off running back in the direction from which they came, and a rush of adrenaline triggers my legs to move.

I chase after them.

I bolt, run, flee, follow the animals until I’m being led around the corner to where I make a discovery that knocks the air right out of my lungs.

Lucy.

She’s lying in front of me, collapsed on the sidewalk.

Sprawled out on her stomach, her long hair billowing from underneath a winter cap.

Lifeless, colorless, motionless.

The dogs sniff her, paw at her, cry and mourn as they run around in anxious circles.

“Lucy…” Breaking into a sprint, I skid to a stop beside her. I reach down and scoop her up into my arms, knowing that maybe I shouldn’t move her but unable to stop myself. “Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.” My voice breaks on every syllable, my heart cracking in two.

I hoist her in the air as I stand, and then I book it. I’m racing down the sidewalk, shouting for help at the top of my lungs.

I don’t know where my phone is. Maybe I dropped it, lost it, never had it.

I can’t think.

Can’t breathe.

“Somebody help me!” I bellow into the too-quiet morning, desperate for help, desperate for this to not be happening.

Lucy is a ragdoll in my arms, unmoving. I’m not sure if she’s breathing.

Is she breathing? Is she fucking breathing?

“Help!”

A neighbor pokes his head out of one of the houses; I think he does, but everything’s a blur and maybe he didn’t. I’m still running, half slipping on patches of ice, Kiki and Lemon frantic beside me as I beg for someone to turn back time and make this not true.

“Breathe, Lucy,” I whisper into her hair as I cradle her to me.

Someone is running at me. A stranger, two strangers. Talking in tongues with blacked-out faces.