An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(6)

Loud rock music fuses with the conversation. I watch as Cal reaches for an abandoned pack of cigarettes on a shelf, falters briefly, then tosses it back down and plucks a piece of gum out of his pocket instead. “Just someone applying for the front desk position.”

“You hire her? She was hot.”

“She was unqualified.”

The associate pops his head up with some kind of wrench in hand. “To answer phones and swipe credit cards? Shit, Cal, this isn’t the fuckin’ Ritz Carlton. Hire the hottie.”

Cal tosses back the gum. “I thought you wanted me to bring in Edna for an interview.”

“Edna doesn’t look like that. Forget I mentioned it.”

“Tell her she has an eleven o’clock interview tomorrow.”

“You’re a dipshit.”

Flipping the man off, Cal stomps off through the garage, leaving the mechanic shaking his head and returning to work.

My fingers are curled around the steering wheel, my knuckles white.

Unqualified.

Maybe I am, but he hadn’t even glanced at my resume before sending me away like I was a complete stranger. Like we didn’t have history together, sprinkled with memories of spending endless summers counting stars and selling lemonade and banana bread slices at the edge of his driveway. Like we didn’t share a powerful common thread—his sister.

I tell myself it’s fine as I drive the five minute trek back home and enter the house, ambushed by happy tongues and wagging canine butts.

I tell myself it’s okay while making a honey and cheddar sandwich for lunch and refilling the dogs’ water bowls.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter when I shuffle between the unpacked boxes in Emma’s old bedroom and collapse to the floor, pulling up the loose plank of wood and reaching for her diary.

But the lie doesn’t stick.

As I flip through the crinkled pages of her journal and her words come to life, I can’t help the tears that burst through like a broken-down dam.

Quietly weeping, I fall backward with the diary pressed against my heart, and I wonder why she left me.

I wonder why they both left me.





Chapter 3





5/18/2013

“Heart and Soul”



You know that amateur piano song every single person on the planet knows how to play? It’s one of the easiest songs to ever exist, but it’s called “Heart and Soul”—which just so happens to be the two most complex and extraordinary things to ever exist.

Isn’t that weird?

Anyway, Lucy is coming over after dinner for a sleepover, and I can’t wait to talk about our summer plans. I want to start a band. Me and Cal on piano, Lucy on guitar, and all of us can sing.

I wonder if they’ll let me name the band Deceptive Cadence?

Or…maybe Heart and Soul.

After all, Lucy is my heart, and Cal is my soul.



Toodles,

Emma





Peachy sunset pours in through the floor-to-ceiling window, matching the feeling soaring through me as I belt out the last few notes to my rendition of Losing My Religion by REM with nothing but a tambourine. I’m so lost in the music, I don’t notice anything else.

I’m addicted to the feeling.

Singing, performing, creating. I’ve never truly been in love before, but it’s the only thing I can think to compare it to. There’s a certain kind of magic in sharing something soul-deep with someone else. It’s almost like you’re making an imprint on their soul.

I grin wide through the final note, shaking my tambourine until the jangling fades into applause. The crowd goes wild, and I finally snap back to the wine bar. People holler and cheer. A motorcycle revs to life right outside the window. Nash claps from behind the bar as he pours a glass of my usual post-performance Riesling, while Alyssa whistles from a high-top table like one of those enthusiastic dance moms. I flash her my teeth before standing from the stool.

Familiar faces shine back at me when I pluck my guitar off the stage and lift it in the air, taking a final bow. “Thank you all for coming out tonight,” I say into the microphone. My voice is steady as I address the audience. As awkward as I come across on a regular day, I’m a different person on stage—calm, collected. Music has always given me confidence. “As always, I’m blessed to be here. I’m Imogen, and I’ll be back next week with more mediocre covers and subpar originals for you. Goodnight, everyone.”

Imogen is my stage name. I chose it as a nod to Emma and her favorite pianist, Imogen Cooper. Still grinning, I bend over, and Alyssa hollers, “Ass-stounding!”

I would flip her the bird if I was capable, but my finger has never cooperated. Instead, I shake my head as laughter falls out of me, collecting my tips and packing up. It takes me a solid twenty minutes due to a flurry of patrons strolling up to thank me for the show, applauding me on a job well done, and sneaking me a few extra tips, but I take my time engaging with every single one of them. Appreciation and pride fill me from toes to top, and a smile hasn’t left my face all evening.

Bliss Wine Bar is packed. It’s Friday night, and I play live music here every week at seven, bringing in a bigger crowd each time. It’s both a part-time gig and a therapeutic outlet.

For me, music is medicine. It’s healing.