An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(4)

With the name “Cal’s Corner,” I’m anticipating someone who looks like Blippi. So, when the towering beast of a man approaches me, decorated in equal parts oil and ink, I’m convinced it’s one of Cal’s surly associates. “Hi!” I beam, flashing my whole set of teeth.

Silence.

He just stares at me, unblinking, managing to intimidate everything within a five-mile radius, including the potted orchid sitting on the reception desk. I swear it wilts before my eyes.

Clearing my throat, I start fidgeting with my thumb ring. There’s a sizable oil stain a few feet away, and I wonder if it doubles as a black hole I can dive into. “Um, so, my name is Lucy. Lucy Hope. I grew up with Cal, and I was wondering—”

“I know who you are.”

My lips shape into an O. “You do? Cal’s mentioned me?” That’s weird. We haven’t spoken in over nine years, and I’d like to think that I don’t still look like a gangly thirteen-year-old with braces and uneven bangs that were self-minced with a pair of dull scissors. Not knowing what else to do, I hold out my hand and harness my smile. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. Is Cal around?”

He glances at my hand like it’s holding the disease-infected monkey from Outbreak. “Yeah, I’ll go get him.”

A sigh of relief leaves me when the man turns and trudges away.

I freeze when he comes right back.

Folding two impossibly muscled arms over his chest, he looks down at me with light tawny eyes that spark a tingle of recognition deep inside me. I squint, then inhale sharply as my heart thunders with awareness. “Cal,” I breathe out.

There’s the slightest crack in his armor when his name leaves my lips, but he recovers quickly. “What are you doing here?”

It appears he’s not capable of saying more than five words at once, but even more mindboggling is the fact that I can’t even manage one.

I’m in a trance.

Memories burst to life, as if I’m hearing a beloved song that hasn’t been played in years. My body hums with nostalgia. I can’t help but replay a million moments in my mind, from hide-and-seek in the backyard, to secret forts and friendship pacts, to sleepovers with Emma that Cal would always try to compromise with silly pranks and antics.

He looks completely different now. The boy I knew emanated softness and warmth, where twenty-five-year-old Cal is standoffish and gruff. If I hadn’t already memorized the sound of his laughter, I might be afraid of him.

While always tall, he’d been on the lanky side growing up. Athletic but skinny. He was a star basketball player in his freshman year of high school before—

Before everything changed.

Despite the sleeves of tattoos that adorn bronzed arms, the layer of scruff lining his jaw, and his impressive brawny build, his eyes look the same. Light, light brown, almost copper. Waves of soft dark hair fall over his forehead in a strikingly similar way.

He swipes at his bangs, tossing the rag onto a side table beside him.

The gesture snaps me back to reality. Tinkering with the end of my braid, I suck in a breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. It’s been so long.”

His jaw tics. Cal drops his eyes, then pulls them back up, giving me a quick sweep. “You look the same.”

I feel like that’s not a compliment, but I bob my head anyway. My hair has darkened from honey to light brown over the years—like coffee with extra cream. It’s long and thick, often in a messy bun or side braid to keep it contained. My boobs didn’t start growing in until I was nearly seventeen, so I have curves now, accentuated by my surplice wrap dress.

But my eyes are still the same smoky blue.

And my heart beats the same.

I realize I never answered his question when he arches one eyebrow and tilts his head, waiting. “Well!” I chirp, overcompensating for the long stretch of awkward silence. “Anyway, I came by to inquire about the front desk position. I was hoping I could apply.”

Because I’ve driven by fifteen times since I moved into your childhood home and saw you were hiring.

My smile stretches, bordering on creepy.

Cal flicks his thumb over his bottom lip as he stares at me, considering my words. Finally, he sighs, looking off to the side. “I’m not hiring.”

Not subtly, I peek over at the giant sign that reads: Now Hiring. When my eyes pan back to Cal, I squeak out, “Oh. I must have misread.”

“Position’s been filled.”

Gliding my bottom lip between my teeth, I can’t help but notice the sad, empty reception desk with the droopy orchid. Piles of receipts and paperwork litter the small cubicle, a sure sign that this place is being run by a bunch of unorganized mechanics.

Which means he doesn’t want to hire me, specifically.

“I see,” I nod, forcing my smile to stay put through the sting of tears. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

He frowns a little before glancing at the plate of banana bread behind me on the chair. “What’s that?”

“Banana bread. It used to be your favorite.”

The scowl deepens.

Somehow, I’ve offended him with banana bread.

I follow his line of sight, gulping. “Homemade. No walnuts. You used to pick out the walnuts when we were kids.” My cheeks burn when the silence thickens. I hate long silences, and often find ridiculous things to ramble on about in order to fill the awful void. One time, I started listing off our nation’s presidents in a linear timeline because I wasn’t sure what else to do.